


Redeath

by TheRealAndian



Category: The Bifrost Incident - The Mechanisms (Album), The Magnus Archives (Podcast), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Martin Blackwood, Awkward Dates, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Canonical Character Death, Caretaking, Childhood Trauma, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Elias Bouchard Being a Bastard, Emotional Baggage, Existential Dread, Existential Horror, Existentialism, Friends to Lovers, Gaslighting, Guns, Holding Hands, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Immortality, Loneliness, M/M, Martin as a Mechanism, Martin gets a gun, Mechanism!Martin, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Only One Bed, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, See? Not everything is bad!, Self-Harm, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Soup, Tea as a love language, Terminal Illnesses, Trauma, accidental friendzoning, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24646762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealAndian/pseuds/TheRealAndian
Summary: Martin Blackwood can't exactly say that his life is normal. It started out normal enough, but he's pretty sure that becoming a pseudo-immortal space pirate after being ripped open by a vampire doctor is a bit "out there". But he hasn't been home in centuries, and after the events of the Bifrost Incident, he really just wants to return to the mundane for a bit. Maybe he can tie up some loose ends while he's at it.The new archiving job and extra-spooky supernatural insanity wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.***An AU that explores Martin as a Mechanism during the TMA timeline.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood & Drumbot Brian, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tim Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Tim Stoker & Martin Blackwood
Comments: 387
Kudos: 555
Collections: Mechanisms and Magnus Crossovers that maintain the integrity of mechanisms lore





	1. Favoured Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So grab yourself a mug o' beer,  
>  gin or vodka! Hold it near!  
> The book is lying open!  
> There are **tales to be told!**_
> 
> Came up with this AU and got really into the idea. It'll probably hold to canon for quite some time; I'm not quite sure where I want to diverge it at. It'll either be during the Unknowing or somewhere in s5. Either way, I hope you enjoy this lovely story I've cursed myself to write!
> 
> Content warnings will always be featured before each chapter, but mind the tags. There's a _lot_ of body horror and some deep diving into a lot of the trauma Martin experiences throughout the series, and during his life as a Mechanism.
> 
> We have just a short intro for you today. There's no proper update schedule just yet, but hopefully we'll get there soon enough!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Body horror, references to emotional abuse from a family member, some violence

It’d been so very long since he’d last seen her, and she hadn’t changed a bit. All “Go away, Martin!” and “Leave me alone, Martin!” and that raging anger at the life she’d never asked for.

Maybe the others had been right—maybe he shouldn’t have come back.

But he was here, and he’d be damned if he didn’t at least stay until she was gone. Besides, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t enjoy the snide remarks and knowing looks on his coming back so soon. Jonny would give him hell, and he wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.

It didn’t help that he was the youngest member of the crew, found by complete accident after the Doc had had her way with him. It didn’t help that he was softer than most of the others; his distaste for senseless violence had always made him clash with the others. It _especially_ didn’t help that he’d much rather go down and mingle with the mortals on whatever planet or station they found themselves on than causing general havoc and misery among them.

But at least, when he was with them, he knew where he stood; he may not belong anywhere, but at least he was with others like him.

He tottered about, tending to his mother’s needs despite her anger and complaining. He’d seen worse. He’d seen things that would give her nightmares until the end. He made tea; he pulled out his knitting; he talked to her about things that, when worded correctly, didn’t sound like they’d happened eons ago or ahead on distant planets light-years from anywhere she could have ever dreamed; he hummed as he knitted, when he paused to think of another story and how best to tell it.

“The hell are you gibbering?” his mother snipped, her piercing blue eyes glaring at him behind sunken eyelids.

Martin closed his mouth right fast. He hadn’t meant to be singing. What song had it been? Didn’t matter. “S-sorry,” he stuttered. “Just, em...found a band I like awhile back. Didn’t mean to start singing.”

The others would be howling right now if they could see him. He _really_ hoped they couldn’t.

“Well it sounds like garbage,” she sneered. “So go home and sing your shit songs away from me.”

He sighed. It’d been...so long since he’d seen her. Why did she have to make him feel so miserable?

Packing up his knitting, he gave his mother a kiss on the cheek, much to her disgust. When he left the home, the streets of London sang to him. Maybe he should run out in front of a taxi—replace the pain in his chest with the silence that followed fatal injury. But no, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t exactly fancy putting himself into harm’s way like Tim or Jonny. And despite the boredom and frustration that was sure to come later, he didn’t like the prospect of spending his entire time back on Earth stuck in a jail cell.

So instead, he trudged out into a lovely evening with the setting sun at his back. A sun which he’d seen expand and consume his homeworld centuries ago in the far future. So many people had died in that moment—burned alive. Tim had looked far too eager at the chaos and destruction. Martin had only felt pity.

His flat was plain and boring, much like himself before he’d met Carmilla. She’d promised him freedom from all the pain, and he had jumped at it. He was...so alone.

He hadn’t expected her to rip out each and every nerve while he screamed and begged for her to stop, only replace it with a mechanical device that kept him going long after he should have ended. Maybe he no longer felt pain, but her mechanism didn’t do anything to quell his loneliness and misery.

But he’d had a few centuries of travelling on the Aurora to get used to the senselessness and cruelty of the universe, and he’d learned pretty early on that it wasn’t just him that seemed to always get the short end of the stick; Brian was a good friend for that.

He made himself another mug of tea and sat down on his couch that felt so wrong but so right. It’d been so bizarre to come back to this place after seeing so much beyond. The fact that Brian had managed to pilot them directly to a week after he’d left was helpful, but...how was he supposed to go back to what he’d been doing before? He’d left the Magnus Institute without a word, and surely people would start to wonder what’d happened to him by now. And he would have to come up with a reason why he couldn’t have called or emailed or _anything_.

At least it hadn’t been any longer than a week; people would’ve assumed something had happened to him, and he wouldn’t have been able to come up with a reason for his absence at all. A week he could work with.

He glanced at his phone. There were a dozen missed calls and messages. He opened the messages, listened to the voicemails. He barely remembered these people. It’d been such a long time.

Coming back had been a bad idea.

Martin sighed and texted one of his old coworkers that he was fine, that he’d been very sick, that he was coming back the next day, that he was sorry to worry them. Then he moved on to the next and continued like that late into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!  
> I'm @therealandian on Tumblr :)


	2. My Name Is No-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No cws for this one, just Martin being confused and petty! Please enjoy!

“Ah! Martin,” someone called behind him. He turned, instinctively reaching for his pistol that wasn’t there.

Elias Bouchard smiled at him. Martin pretended not to study the man he’d once called his boss. ...And whom he would be calling his boss for the foreseeable future, he supposed. Something in Elias’s stormy eyes made Martin _very_ uncomfortable, but he couldn’t place it. The silvery hair and thin mustache were familiar, though. “Good to see you’re feeling better,” Elias said. 

“Yep!” Martin grinned, feigning cheeriness as best he could manage. It’d been so long since he’d had to run these sort of circuits. “Good to be back. Sorry I didn’t tell anyone what was going on sooner.”

Elias waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it too much. I put it under your paid sick leave. I don’t think you realise just how much of that you have. I must say it was rather impressive to see that many days given, well, I don’t suppose you want to talk about that.”

Right. The illness that had plagued him since he was twenty-three. The same one that ate away at his mother. The same one that had made him agree to meet with Carmilla.

“Anyway,” Elias continued, “I wanted to inform you that you’re being reassigned.”

Martin blinked, forcing back the memory of all that pain and misery. “R-reassigned?”

“Yes. I’m moving you down to the Archives.”

That seemed odd. He didn’t have any experience in archiving at _all_ , unless the time he’d spent with Ivy counted as experience. But Elias couldn’t know anything about that. “D-don’t I have to, I dunno, have a degree in that sort of thing?” he asked.

Elias chuckled. “Normally, yes. Unfortunately, no one here meets the necessary requirements, so I’m making do with what I have. You’ve proven yourself to be quite adept in Research, so you should have no trouble fitting in as an Archival Assistant.”

“Oh.”

He racked his brain for the memories he needed, but he was coming up with a blank. He couldn’t remember her name, but her face was a vague shade in his mind. Sometimes he _wished_ he had as good a memory as Ivy. “What about, um- I thought that the head archivist didn’t want any assistants?” 

“Ah, I suppose you didn’t hear. Gertrude, our former Archivist, seems to have, ah- disappeared, and she left quite the mess in her office. I’ve taken the liberty of replacing her and giving our new Archivist some assistance.”

“Mess?”

Elias nodded. “You should go down there and ask the other assistants, and the new Archivist if you can catch him outside of his office. I’m afraid I have quite a bit of paperwork to finish regarding Gertrude’s disappearance.”

Martin shifted to the side to let Elias pass. “Right. Right, ‘course.”

He watched the retreating form of his boss. Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad thing, after all. Hopefully he’d be saddled with people he didn’t already know, and so he wouldn’t have to deal with awkward reintroductions. And plus, if everyone else was equally clueless as to how to do their new job, maybe he’d fit in just fine.

He took a deep breath and stepped through the door that led to the Archives. The stairs creaked under his shoes, and the air seemed to dampen and close in around him. It smelled of dust and paper and ancient knowledge, not unlike Ivy’s quarters on the Aurora. The dim lighting didn’t seem too conducive for what they were supposed to be doing, but he supposed it would keep from bleaching any of the older papers.

And there were a _lot_ of papers—whole stacks leaning precariously against an aging shelf that looked like it might collapse if he dared to touch it. More papers were tossed haphazardly onto the shelves, seemingly in no order at all. Boxes were stuffed full and overflowing with yet more papers.

“Two hundred years-worth of statements,” someone said, coming up beside him.

He turned, his hand again reaching for a weapon he wasn’t carrying. A tall, strong-looking man with glinting brown eyes, tanned skin pulled taut against muscles, and a radiant smile grinned at him. “Easy there, Martin,” he smirked. “Just me. Welcome to this hell of an Archive.”

Martin again dragged himself back across the centuries, desperately trying to remember who this man was. Had he been a former lover? No, no. He’d had very few of those _ever_ , and certainly not one during his time at the Institute. So he was just a coworker—one whom he was supposed to already know.

A memory popped into the back of his mind from when he’d first been introduced to the crew. Gunpowder Tim’s name had struck a chord with him, and he vaguely remembered knowing a Tim at work. This must be that one. He hoped.

If he was wrong, though…

“Yeah,” he chuckled back, shoving away his anxiety as best he could. “It’s...a bit of a mess down here, isn’t it?”

Possibly-Tim laughed. “Got that right. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

Martin let himself be led around by this man who may or may not be named Tim as he explained where things were and what they’d already sorted. Unfortunately, there was hardly any of that. The place didn’t look any better the further into the stacks they went. Tim pointed out a box that was full of recent statements except for two or three from the early 1800s.

Ridiculous. Ivy would be tearing her hair out by now. Ashes would just burn the place to the ground. Maybe if he found enough gasoline...

“Jon’s probably hiding in his office like normal, but Sasha ‘nd I have set up over here,” Maybe-Tim said, pointing at a circle of desks.

A tall, dark-skinned woman with round glasses and piercing hazel eyes sat at one of the desks, her feet propped up on another. Her focused expression reminded him of Raphaella. She looked up at the sound of her name, though. “Oh good!” she said happily. “Tim thought you might get lost trying to find your way in here. Good to see you’re doing better.”

The man who was certainly named Tim snorted. “Poor guy was just staring in horror at the mess on the stairs.”

“We didn’t fare any better.”

“Yeah, but we’ve had a few days.”

Martin rubbed his hands together nervously, grimacing with distaste at the damp sweat coating his palms. “So um...what exactly are we supposed to do here?”

Sasha pointed at a box stuffed with loose paper. “We take these, record them on the computer in one of the rooms on your left, then file them by date. You should go get your stuff from upstairs.”

“R-right.” But before he turned away, he paused. “So um...what happened to-?”

“Former head archivist?” Sasha chipped in. “Disappeared, but there was a _load_ of blood left on her desk. The police assume it was murder, but they can’t find the body.”

“Right…”

He felt like he should have acted a bit more surprised at the news of a potential murder, but he’d seen enough that it just didn’t bother him as much as it used to. He didn’t think it was _right_ , of course, but it just wasn’t enough to upset him. Hopefully no one looked into that too closely.

It took him a moment to find his way back to the stairs. There was so much knowledge here. How much would he recognise? How much would be new?

He briefly wondered if he might find a tale about one of his crewmates hidden somewhere in the stacks, but he pushed the thought away. If he found a story about a metallic man or someone shooting themselves in the face and walking away like nothing happened, he’d just have to play it off as if he had no idea.

He could do this.

There wasn’t much to clean from his old desk; he’d never been the sort to take up much space with his things. He trudged back to the Archives with his laptop and a few knickknacks he’d collected over the years. Dropping everything unceremoniously onto one of the desks, he glanced around again at the mess surrounding him.

Sasha looked up from her research and followed his gaze. “We’ll get through it eventually,” she said.

“Yeah.” He really hoped he wouldn’t have to stay here too long, even if that meant his mother died sooner than he hoped. He could leave this planet behind once she was gone, and he’d never have to look at anything as horrendous as this mess ever again.

Although this place was still better than Yog-Sothoth.

He shuddered and set to work on researching a statement Sasha handed him.

After nearly an hour of getting nowhere, he finally stood up and headed into the breakroom. Sasha and Tim were already there, but their elusive head archivist was nowhere to be seen.

Martin put on a kettle and sat down in one of the chairs in the corner. Sasha was talking about whatever statement she’d just recorded, and she and Tim were having an absolute _blast_ picking it apart.

“-and then he said that the ‘weird man’ got hit by a truck,” she giggled. “Then he just got back up and walked away.”

Tim snickered. “How is that supposed to be _spooky_?”

“Ah, but you see, the truck _exploded_!” she laughed. Her words were barely intelligible anymore. “And he just walked away while he was on fire!”

“And what did our statement-giver settle on?”

“An angry ghost,” Sasha sighed, her laughter dying down. “At least it recorded on the computer correctly.”

The kettle started to whistle. Martin jumped, then hastily pulled it off the small stove. Pouring himself a mug and placing a teabag inside, he pretended that he hadn’t been listening intently to their conversation.

“How far ’ve you gotten, Martin?” Tim asked.

Martin looked up from his mug, hoping he didn’t look too guilty. “I mean...I’ve really just been researching the one so far. I’m not really sure...what I’m supposed to be doing with it?”

“So you’ve been wasting time,” a deep, grouchy voice muttered.

Martin almost spilled his tea. The man who’d entered the room sounded like he hadn’t slept in a month and was getting by solely on caffeine. His dark green eyes glared at him from under hooded eyebrows and baggy eyelids. His caramel skin looked rough even under the soft glow of fluorescent lights. Despite Martin standing a good head above him, he felt like he was trapped by that withering gaze.

The ‘Cute Man’ alarm went off in his mind.

“You must be Martin,” the man continued. “I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re not sick anymore, but do try to work through the statements faster. We have too much work to do for anyone to be slacking around.”

Martin blinked. Did...did this man just accuse him of _slacking_!? “Well I _do_ apologise for taking so long,” Martin sneered. “It’s not like I _just got here_ or anything.”

The man, whom Martin had decided must be Jon, glared at him a minute longer before turning and walking out of the breakroom.

Martin huffed, then turned back to his tea. His tea, which was now oversteeped. Great.

“Damn, Martin,” Tim chuckled. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

“Well what did you _expect_ me to do?”

Tim shrugged. “Not bite back, that’s for sure. Good on you, though.”

Martin slumped against the counter. “Well he didn’t have to be a complete arse for a first meeting.”

“That’s just how he is.”

“Doesn’t make it okay,” Sasha pointed out. “It’s nice to see someone be an arse right back.”

Well, he’d had plenty of experience, he supposed. And if Jon wanted to be that way, then Martin would return the favour. It didn’t matter how cute the guy was, Martin was a petty bastard, and he would stand by that.

He smirked into his tea. He could handle this mess. Just a few deep breaths and a load of pettiness, and he’d be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyy the gang's all here. Now the fun begins >:D  
> Also the exploding truck guy was Gundpowder Tim. You're welcome.
> 
> Find me at TheRealAndian on Tumblr!


	3. Skin and Bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit rough, so I'll leave a TL;DR in the bottom notes.
> 
> CW: Body horror, blood, graphic depictions of injury and mending (think Flesh levels of ew), worms, Jane Prentiss in general (trypophobia), mentions of death, self-deprecation, self-harm (but out of necessity because worms; just- too many worms, descriptions of worms, worms being inside of flesh, etc.)
> 
> Basically, this is Martin's encounter with Jane Prentiss. So fair warning.

Things ran smoothly for a while. Go in, make tea, get through two or three statements before lunch, get through another couple after, go home and sleep, repeat. He ignored Jon where possible and dealt with him where necessary. Tim and Sasha were rather good company, and he slowly started to let himself relax around them. It was...certainly a change of pace. A good one.

He missed his crew, though. He couldn’t talk to these people about what he’d become. They wouldn’t understand, and they would be afraid of him. He didn’t want to do that to anyone. Not for the first time, he wished he had a flatmate. Of course, if he’d had one before he’d met Carmilla, he wouldn’t have been able to come back. They might have even died or worse if she’d gotten her hands on them as well. He would never wish the pain of immortality on anyone, nor the fear that comes from knowing about the Beyond.

But now? Now he’d gone too far. Now he had this damned _thing_ knocking on his door constantly at all hours of the day and night. And he was so _scared_. He _knew_ he wouldn’t feel it if one of those _creatures_ clamoured under his skin and filled him with pitted holes and scars. He’d already discovered two in his leg this morning, and things weren’t looking great for the future. What would happen if they overtook him? Would he spend the rest of his extended existence terrorising everyone around him while worms piloted his body? Would he even realise that he was more a freak than he already was?

Or would he just. End?

He hoped not. Dying like this would be so unpleasant. And he knew for a _fact_ his crew would burn down the planet in retaliation. He didn’t want that. If only he knew a way out of this that wouldn’t involve dying or being horrifically maimed. Just because he didn’t feel pain didn’t mean that he couldn’t look like death itself.

He glanced out his window. His flat was on the third storey up, but jumping wouldn’t cause him any pain. Discomfort from walking with broken legs, maybe, but not pain. Then he could limp away, find somewhere to hole himself up while his body healed itself, then go back in to work and tell them what happened. Spin the truth so it wasn’t him jumping out his window and limping away. He could do that. Unlike Brian, he didn’t have the same outlook on telling the truth. The truth had rarely gotten him anywhere good. And in this case? That ceaseless knocking and the squelch of those worms…

He couldn’t take it anymore.

Centuries ago, he would’ve been terrified to pull any sort of stunt like this. Would've been afraid that the pain would come back despite his mechanical nerves, and he wouldn't be able to do anything. But he knew better, now; he knew he would never feel pain again. It used to scare him. Now? Now he didn’t even care.

He flung himself from the window.

For a moment, there is nothing but him and the exhilaration of the air around him. It wasn’t unlike that time he and Brian had decided to skydive with the Toy Soldier. From space. Without any parachutes. Was better than getting caught in that station’s explosion, at least.

Then he heard the crunch of twisting bone. He gasped as his legs practically dissolved under his weight, mind still anticipating the pain he knew wouldn’t come.

His legs useless, he crawled away, glaring at the ground and hoping no one saw him and the trail of blood he left behind. He just needed to get away before he passed out from blood loss; put as much distance between himself and Jane Prentiss as possible.

He moved agonisingly slow, but he gritted his teeth and pressed forward. He could already feel his legs beginning to mend back together, and while it was an unpleasant sensation, it wasn’t something he hadn’t experienced before. At least it was better than when it was his skull during a bar fight.

Eventually he pulled himself into a small alleyway. As long as no one spotted him lurking in the dark, or followed his blood to this place, he would be fine. He rested against the brick wall of some anonymous building and shut his eyes while his legs slowly began to pop back into place.

He didn’t mean to stay there long. He sure as hell didn’t mean to fall asleep. But he did, and when he woke up, there was a homeless man staring at him in horror. Martin glanced at the blood trail behind him, and the pool at his feet. The flesh wounds were gone, though, and he could feel only a few of the worst breaks still not quite securely in place. He shrugged at the man, got up, and started to walk away at the most brisk pace he could manage. Hopefully that man wouldn’t be making a statement about him—to either the Institute _or_ the police.

Shuffling along, he didn’t notice anything too abnormal. The streets of London were filled with passersby, taxis, and rain. Also he was soaked. Fantastic.

At least it was washing away the blood.

He figured it was safe to go back to the Institute now. He was healed enough that no one would notice. The wounds from the two worms he’d dug out of his legs hadn’t even bothered to scar. But would anyone believe him? Sure, he’d been gone a few days without contacting them, but, in their experiences, he’d done that before and it hadn’t been a problem. Now, though...maybe he should stay away a bit longer. Let Jon start to get genuinely concerned, perhaps.

And if he just so happened to see Prentiss wandering about while he laid low, he might just go and scoop a few worms into a jar to present to Jon once he decided it’d been long enough. It wasn’t like they could hurt him, not really, anyway. He’d just have to make sure that none of them went into him. 

And when he returned, he could scare the shit out of his arse of a boss. The look on his face would be priceless.

Martin grinned, ignoring the rain that dripped from his hair to his nose to his toes. This was going to be a fun little adventure, and the Mechanisms were all about that.

* * *

It was nearly a week and a half later when he finally built up the courage to return to his flat. He figured it’d been plenty of time to make anyone at work concerned about his absence, and ideally Prentiss herself would be gone already.

She was not; she was still at his door, and he suddenly remembered just how dreadful being stuck in his flat was. If he'd thought to grab his gun when he'd run away, he could end this pretty easily. Unfortunately, he hadn't had that foresight.

She stared at the door with what may have been confusion. She'd stopped knocking, anyhow. He tried not to look too hard at her squirming form, but the worms were a bit too much. If he could just get close enough to some of the little bastards-

As if answering a call, she whipped around to face him, her hollow eyes wide with possible shock.

"How?" she rasped.

He backpedalled hard, falling onto his rear. He felt a few worms wriggle into his skin, squirming around inside his ankle. It didn't _hurt_ but the sheer _wrongness_ was bad enough.

The worm lady shuffled toward him, and he fought the urge to scream in terror. He’d seen worse— _so much worse_. This should feel like a walk in the park in comparison to what happened in Yggdrasil! But _God_ , the _smell_ and the shifting, squishing worms poking in and out of her every orifice while carving new ones? His stomach threatened to revolt.

Finally, he found his feet again, turned tail, and _ran_. The unholy squelch of worms followed him down the stairs, but he didn’t dare to stop. In his mind, he could almost hear Jonny laughing at his cowardice.

Stumbling out the door, he turned and ran to wherever his legs would take him. He should’ve prepared something, maybe have grabbed a jar or something to put any worms in, but quite frankly he hadn’t expected her to still _be there_! He figured he would just pick up any of the carcasses of the worms he’d already taken care of in his flat, maybe grab a shower, some fresh clothes.

God, this was a mess. At least he was pretty sure that Prentiss’s shifting, worm-ridden mass couldn’t move fast enough to catch him. All he needed to do was get something to pull the worms out of his leg with.

He quickly scrounged out a piece of broken glass that’d once been a bottle lying near a dumpster. He took a quick, shaky breath. “Just get them out, Martin,” he murmured, shifting his leg to a more accessible position. The creatures had moved up into his calf, and he could see the small lumps of their bodies moving under his skin. Another jolt of fear lashed through him, but he choked it down and plunged the glass into his leg.

The pressure of tearing flesh always felt odd when not accompanied by pain. He could feel his skin and muscle separate, but all it seemed was a tickle. Logically, he knew it should hurt, and, during the first few years after the change, his mind sometimes still tried to trick him into _believing_ it hurt. But that had faded centuries ago. Now it just felt normal—even natural—if weird.

But the memory of sharp, boiling pain still remained locked away in his mind, kept as far from consciousness as possible.

“Gotcha,” he grinned, ripping out the first worm. It thrashed against his pull, but the glass had pierced its fleshy body and the creature couldn’t quite struggle free. It reminded him of a worm on a fishhook. He shuddered, reminded of the time he’d gone fishing with Raphaella, only to be swallowed whole by a fish as big as the Aurora. At least Tim’s affinity for blowing things up got him out after they finally remembered him nearly a decade later. Good Lord, he’d been so bored, then.

He pinched the worm off and held its head between his fingers, careful to avoid its hissing teeth. He didn’t exactly have anywhere to put it, so at least this would be...better than letting it burrow back into him. Then, he caught the other worm, now in his thigh, and held it up in his other hand.

“Time to go,” he muttered, rolling his trouser leg back down and ignoring the bloody splotches that stained it. It was a much more difficult process than necessary, seeing as his hands were occupied, but after kicking at it with his other leg, he got his jeans to cooperate.

Then, after shifting one of the worms to the opposite hand (a rather delicate procedure if he didn’t want its friend attacking his hand), he dragged himself to his feet. The worms tried their damnedest to get a grip with their slippery little bodies, but he held them tight and prayed they would be enough proof for Jon, because he _really_ didn’t want to have to go back to that flat and get more.

* * *

Armed with a pair of worms, a fake tale, and the face of a traumatised man, he rushed into the Institute, barrelling past poor confused Rosie and kicking into Jon’s office.

It seemed he’d interrupted a recording, but he didn’t care. Jon looked like he was busy debunking the statement, anyway.

The sudden opening of the door startled the poor arse of a man, making him nearly jump out of his seat. The tape recorder in his hand nearly dropped. Martin didn’t care. He unceremoniously plopped the two worms down onto the desk, ignoring the flustered “My God! Martin!?” that squeaked out of Jon.

“What…what the hell is-? What are these things?!” Jon cried, backing away from the critters now clamouring toward him.

Martin smashed the little buggers with his fist, eliciting a very satisfying and disgusting _pop_. “I want to make a statement,” he declared. Although just before he had, he heard the tape recorder click off, despite neither him nor Jon touching it. He ignored it. “Something happened, and I need to make a statement.”

Jon stared at him, eyes wide. “But you…” He looked away, eyes drawn to the tape recorder. “Right...right, okay. Sit down.”

Martin took a deep breath, drawing on all the fear he’d felt when he’d been trapped by Prentiss and when he’d gone back to face her. It wasn’t hard; just looking at the crushed worm bodies was enough to make him queasy. He slumped into the chair across from Jon and ran a hand through his hair.

Flicking the tape recorder back on, Jon sighed, “Martin, are you sure about this?”

“I just want to make a statement about what happened to me. I mean, it- it’s what we do.”

Jon made some blasé comment about how really all they did was _research_ the statements, and Martin fired back with Jon’s obvious ability to vouch for the soundness of his mind. After going back and forth a bit more, Jon caved, rolling his eyes. “Fine. You’re right, I suppose. Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding…?”

“A close encounter with something I believe to have once been Jane Prentiss.”

“Recorded direct from subject, 12th March, 2016. Statement begins.”

And Martin spun his tale.

He tried to keep it as close to reality as possible. For some reason, lying just felt so _wrong_ while he spoke, despite him never having had a problem with it before. He chalked it up to having a mild crush on Jon. After all, the man _was_ pretty cute in a weird, stuffy way. Also Martin had always been a bit of a sap; he hadn’t had a good romance in a few centuries.

 _But he’s still an arse,_ he reminded himself when Jon chided at him to stay on-topic.

He finished his story, and Jon leaned back for a moment, contemplating. He’d barely taken his eyes off the dead worms since Martin had mentioned Prentiss’s intrusion. “You’re sure of all of this, Martin?” he asked, his eyes flicking up momentarily. Martin just barely caught a glimpse of something that may have genuinely been concern, and a slight warmth beat in his heart.

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon,” Martin replied, guilt bubbling in his throat as he did. What was it about lying to Jon that suddenly had his own body revolting against him? “I…like my job. Most of the time.”

And then...Jon offered him a place to stay. He was _genuine_. Almost _kind_ , even. The thing with the phone was certainly unexpected but...had Jon actually been _worried_ about him?

There were those little butterflies flitting about in his stomach. He forced a small smile. Maybe Jon really _did_ have a somewhat softer side behind all that prim and proper demeanor. Maybe he could even manage to be friends with the man after all.

He tried his best to push that from his mind. Just because Jon was being considerate _now_ didn’t mean he would be _later_. Still...this was progress. He could live with progress. And as he settled down that night in a bed that did not belong to him and smelled like another man’s cologne, he tried not to think too hard on where that progress may lead him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TL;DR**   
>  _Martin is trapped in his flat by Jane Prentiss. In order to escape, he jumps from his window, injuring himself in the process. Since he is incapable of feeling pain thanks to his Mechanism, he limps away and hides out for awhile. He plans to bring in some dead worms to prove to Jon that he was telling the truth, but after eventually building up the courage to return to his flat, he finds that Prentiss is still there and gets attacked. He removes the worms that managed to bite him, then promptly returns to the Institute to give his statement. After doing so, he begins his 4-month stay in the Archives._
> 
> I know this one was a bit much, and unfortunately, there's one coming up in 2 weeks that is actually more so, so I'll add a summary to it, too. But! Martin is safe, and he's starting to fall for our boy Jon. Nothing could _possibly_ go wrong with _that!_
> 
> Let me know what you think so far, and follow me on [Tumblr!](https://therealandian.tumblr.com)


	4. Peacemaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite...
> 
> CW: worms (again), body horror, trypophobia, gore, blood.

Jane Prentiss’s little invasion wasn’t exactly unexpected. That didn’t mean Martin was fully prepared, of course, but at least it was anticipated. If only he’d managed to find a place to hide some of his weapons prior; he practically felt naked with just a corkscrew and the pair of kitchen knives he’d swiped from the breakroom. Plus he had quite a few fire extinguishers stashed about, but unfortunately, most of them were hidden in boxes in Jon’s office. Jon’s office, which was now infested with worm monsters. How very useful.

Still, seeing Jonathan Sims, that seemingly unshakable idiot, up to his shoulder in worms that were clamouring up and into his arm, screaming at him to “Get the goddamn CO2!!” was quite the surreal experience. He’d have to mark that down as something to tell his mates once he finally headed back to the Aurora.

Now he was sitting in the room that had become _his_ room with Jon and Sasha while worms squiggled and squirmed outside. What an absolute mess.

Blood leaked down Jon’s injured arm. None of the worms had managed to really get ahold of him there, but one of them _had_ burrowed into his leg after he dropped the tape recorder he’d tried so hard to recover. Now Martin was working on getting the tape recorder that he’d borrowed for his poetry rolling while Sasha was on worm-removal duty.

“And…there we go,” Martin said, cringing at the sound of Jon’s shrieks of pain. “Recording again.” A squelch came from behind. “Did you get it?”

“There,” Sasha chirped, completely ignoring him. “And I just want to point out that I didn’t make this much of a fuss.”

Jon panted, eyes squeezed shut with pain and face was twisted with fear. “I think your removal was _substantially_ cleaner.”

Sasha turned to Martin, holding up the bloodied corkscrew still holding the worm locked in its death throes. “I’m still not sure why you have this. Drinking in the archives?”

“What?” Admittedly, he could use a drink right about now, but the very idea of him drinking anywhere _near_ work was almost enough to make him laugh. He knew how he was—how all the Mechanisms were. “No, no, it’s for worms.”

“What?” Jon asked, still managing to sound judgemental while trying to bleed out on the floor.

Martin rolled his eyes. “For pulling the worms out of people. Like now.” He thought that was a pretty good reason. The worms weren’t exactly _fast_ , if his many nights over the past few months waking up to one burrowing into his skin was anything to go by. And the corkscrew made less of a mess than a knife, anyhow; it caught the little bastards like a fishhook, rather than cutting it in half and forcing him to squish his skin until the pieces popped out or just full-on cutting out a chunk of flesh.

After explaining this (without mentioning any of the bits that would inevitably lead to him revealing what he was), Jon stared at him, bright eyes focused and thoughtful. “Well...thank you,” he whispered.

A small bit of pride swelled in Martin’s chest, but he pushed it down—they had more important things to worry about now. Namely, what to do now.

He knew the room was safe, and Jon was right about them not being able to flood through the air con like they had from the hole in the wall. Still, getting out would be an issue. Well...at least it would if he didn’t want to get found out. The others would realise that something was strange about him right away. And besides, even if he escaped, he’d be abandoning them. He didn’t particularly like that plan.

And then, of course, there was Tim to worry about. With him gone out to lunch, there was no telling when he would get back, nor if he would even be all right if he did. The worms may have backed off for now, but that wouldn’t save Tim. Not for the first time, he wished that Tim Stoker was really just Gunpowder Tim in clever disguise. It’d be a lot easier to remember which Tim did what, anyway, but also immortality could be pretty handy. Also explosions.

Martin stared out the window in the door, nose wrinkling at the sight of those _horrible_ little worms. A small movement by the stairs drew his gaze, and there was Tim. He didn’t notice the worms creep back into the office, but he did spot the tape recorder. Despite knowing full well that the room was soundproofed, he couldn’t help but shout his name in the vague hopes that Tim would hear.

Tim, still completely oblivious to literal death standing so close beside him, leaned down to pick up the recorder, turning it over in his hand with a look of mildly confused interest. He pressed a few buttons, then started speaking. Martin very desperately wished he could grab the man and drag him away.

“Turn around,” Sasha begged. “Just turn around!”

And then Prentiss herself shuffled up behind him. Her ragged, blood-soaked dress dragged on the floor behind her, and her pitted and warped flesh thrummed with a beat that could not possibly be a heart. Worms crawled and squirmed between holes, their black heads peeking out here and there.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Jon muttered, struggling into a better sitting position. His words may have been hard, but his face betrayed his terror. Tim was, after all, one of the only people Martin might actually call Jon’s friend.

With a shudder, Martin realised that _he_ could save Tim. All he had to do was run out there and grab him, then run like his life depended on it. Maybe he’d even get away before any of the worms slithered inside of him. But with the unkempt fear pumping through his veins and the panic freezing him in place, there was nothing he could do.

“Ah, screw this!” Sasha muttered.

Her hand fiddled with the lock, and Martin suddenly knew _exactly_ what she was about to do. His stomach dropped. _It should be me,_ he thought, while Jon yelled at her to stop.

Then the door was open, and everything was worms and fear and fire extinguishers.

When he came back to himself, the door was closed, the extinguisher in his hand was half depleted, and Jon was cowering in the corner.

Martin took a shaky breath, then glanced down at whatever was touching his foot. Was it a worm? Had he been invaded again, only this time Jon was there to see it? No, it was just the tape recorder. He must’ve kicked it in his panic.

He picked it up, turned it over in his quivering hand. It seemed undamaged, but when he clicked the button, it clicked back off right away.

A whimper behind him pulled his attention back to Jon. He looked like he was trying to stand, but his leg was fighting him. He reached out to grab one of the filing cabinets beside him, but shrunk back when his injured arm touched the cool metal. Then he flopped back onto his rear and curled in on himself, defeated.

Martin grabbed the first-aid kit he’d stolen from the breakroom and sat down in front of Jon. Jon watched him with wary eyes, but didn’t kick him in the face or anything when Martin began to wrap Jon’s leg in gauze. All he did was hiss in pain and wince at any light brush of skin.

 _Didn’t like you, anyway,_ Martin thought mirthlessly. It wasn’t _quite_ true. Jon had slowly started to grow on him, especially in the past few months since he’d started living in the Archives, but Martin would rather listen to Tim’s rambling about his seduced cops than Jon’s yelling at him to do better.

When Martin moved to bandage Jon’s arm, Jon reached for the tape recorder and started messing with it in his free hand. So far, neither had said a word, and it was starting to feel a bit awkward—like they ought to be talking about what just happened, or what to do next. He honestly wasn’t even sure why he was tending to Jon the way he was. He’d better at least get a “thank you” out of this.

After pinning the bandages in place, Martin moved to the window. The worms had spilled back out into the hall, and there was no sign of either of his friends. He was somewhat sure that Sasha had gotten away all right, but Tim...Tim had run into the office, hadn’t he? He remembered that, now. Tim was probably dead.

Maybe if he’d been faster…

“Right. There we go,” Jon said softly with a note of triumph. The recorder whirred in his hand. “Martin, what do you see?”

“What?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I can’t really stand up yet. I need you to...describe what’s going on. For the record.”

 _So much for gratitude._ “Ah, yeah,” Martin replied, keeping his eyes fixated on the window so Jon couldn’t see the annoyance he was feeling. “So um, Sasha tackled Tim, and there was kind of a struggle, but she made it out of the Archives. Th-that was about two minutes ago and she’s gone to get help.” He swallowed dryly. “P-probably, I mean, sh-she couldn’t...she wouldn’t just run, so…”

“Did it look like any of the worms...got her, before she left?”

Martin shook his head. He’d been abandoned before, but Sasha wouldn’t. And as for the worms: “No. I don’t think so,” he said. “Tim neither, I think. It was hard to tell after she tackled him. There was just a lot of movement a-and shouting a-and wriggling…”

Jon’s voice deepened. “Stay with it, Martin. Tim. What happened to Tim?”

“They got split up and he ran into the office. You said that’s where you made the hole. When you were recording. And they all came through, so…,” Martin took a shaking breath, then breathed out slowly, “he’s dead. He’s dead in there and he’s covered in worms and that’s it.”

“We don’t know that.”

“...Maybe.”

He’d lost people before. He’d lost friends, lovers, acquaintances, and more. Something about this hit differently, though. Maybe it was because he could’ve done something to save him. Maybe it was because Martin Blackwood was a complete coward, despite centuries of life and the universe’s horrors being laid out before him.

Still, he tried to cling to hope. Or perhaps it was Jon’s hope. “Maybe, maybe he found the spare CO2.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, face perking up a bit. “Spare? What? Where? I never saw any.”

Once again, Martin was faced with one of his bad ideas. “Oh, I, er…I-I hid them in old casefile boxes.”

“What, why?” His face was now screwed up with confusion and frustration.

“Well, so the worms didn’t know they were there!” Martin replied. Jon scoffed, and his face fell into that resting bitch face that Martin was more accustomed to. Martin waved his arms a bit, trying to make a point and knowing that he was failing. “Look, I know it’s stupid.”

“Yes! Yes it is,” Jon groaned, leaning his head back against the filing cabinet. “They’re just…they’re just unclassified parasites. They don’t have consciousness, they can’t plan, they’re just an unthinking infection.”

“Seriously?!” Martin wasn’t sure if Jon was just an idiot (although he’d claimed to be one just a few minutes ago), or if he was just trying to be brave.

“What?”

“Why do you _do_ that?”

“Do what?”

The urge to smack his boss across the face was there, and it was incredibly tempting. Jon had a very punchable face, but unfortunately he was cute. So far, that was his only redeeming quality. “Push the sceptic thing so hard!?” Jon gave him a blank stare, but Martin was just starting. “I mean, it made sense at first, but _now_? After everything we’ve seen, after everything you’ve read! I hear you recording statements and y-you just dismiss them. You tear them to pieces like they’re wasting your time, but half of the ‘rational’ explanations you give are actually _far_ more far-fetched than just accepting it was a-a ghost or something. I mean for God’s sake Jon, we’re literally hiding from some kind of worm queen _thing_! How- how could you possibly still not believe!?”

“Of course, I believe,” Jon whined, raising his voice just a bit. He took a breath, and Martin crossed his arms, waiting for more. “Of course I do. Have you ever taken a look at the stuff we have in Artefact storage? That’s enough to convince _anyone_. But- but even before that…why do you think I started working here? It’s not exactly glamorous. I have…I’ve always believed in the supernatural. Within reason. I mean. I still think most of the statements down here aren’t real. Of the hundreds I’ve recorded, we’ve had maybe…thirty? forty? that are…that go on tape. Now those, I believe, at least for the most part.”

His anger was subsiding, and he didn’t want to slap some sense into Jon as much, but there was still a heavy dose of frustration. “Then _why_ do you—”

“Because I’m scared, Martin!” Jon cried, curling further in on himself. “Because when I record these statements it feels…it feels like I’m being watched. I- I lose myself a bit. And then when I come back, it’s like…like if I admit there may be any truth to it, whatever’s watching will…Know, somehow. The scepticism—feigning ignorance—i-it just felt safer.”

That...made sense. In a weird, Jon-logic way, that made sense. He’d felt it too—that feeling of being watched. He wasn’t sure if he’d noticed it before he’d left, but he certainly felt it now. It was subtle most of the time, but whenever he was scared or alone, it was always there. Not acting, not threatening, just...Watching.

Martin stared blankly out the window, gut roiling with the worms outside. Jon kept asking him questions about what was going on out there, but his mind had wandered, and he only half-acknowledged them, now. Surely there had to be _something_ behind all this. From his own experience, very few things happened without some sort of prompting. Odin built the train at the behest of the Outer Gods, his mother griped at him because she was still angry at his father for leaving, the Mechanisms ran around causing havoc wherever because they were bored of eternity.

What was Prentiss’s motive? Why come here?

“Why are you here, Martin?”

The question cut through his musings, and he turned to face Jon. Martin furrowed his brow and gestured at the door. “Well- well, Prentiss is out there and you can’t run so—”

Jon rolled his eyes, tugging his injured arm closer. “I mean at the Archive in general. Why haven’t you quit?”

“Are you giving me my review now?” Martin scoffed, wrinkling his nose. It hardly seemed the time for this sort of-

“No…,” Jon sighed, absentmindedly rubbing the back of his head and mussing his hair. “We’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing and, truth be told, the question’s been bothering me. You’ve been living in the Archives for four months, constant threat of—” he gestured around them “—this. Sleeping with a fire extinguisher and a corkscrew. Even _you_ must be aware that that’s not normal for an archiving job. Why are you still here?”

Martin slumped down next to the man and considered for a moment. He really didn’t _know_ , if he was being honest with himself. Centuries of experience dealing with unholy creatures and gods from beyond and in-between realities, and he had _no idea_ why he didn’t just leave this place. “Don’t really know,” he finally shrugged. “I just am.” Jon seemed to consider that, but he definitely didn’t look satisfied. Martin bit his lip, trying to put what he felt into words. “It didn’t feel right to just leave. I’ve typed up a few resignation letters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hand them in. I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t…move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck.”

He hoped that was enough for Jon. He could feel eyes on him, and he _really_ hoped they were just Jon’s, but something in the back of his mind screamed that there was more going on here. _Obviously_ there was more going on, he just didn’t want any part of it. He’d only dared to come back to this place to give himself some closure—to keep watch over his mother until her end, and then run back off to the stars where he could pretend that he was all right and no one would question him.

“Martin, y-you’re not, uh…you didn’t die here, did you?”

Martin blinked. “What?” He looked at Jon, and saw the face of a very nervous man slowly and not-so-subtly shifting away from him. “What? N-no…what?!”

Jon fumbled with his collar, face burning red. “No, I just…no, just the way you phrased that—”

“Made you think I was a _ghost_?” Surely Jon could not be this ridiculous. _Surely_ Jon could not be this ridiculous. How was someone even supposed to _respond_ to that!?

“No…it’s—”

Martin shook his head, trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. “No, no…it’s just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think.”

Jon sheepishly looked away, hand unconsciously mussing his hair some more. Martin was struck by the urge not to _slap_ Jon, but to burst out laughing completely and hold onto Jon like a lifeline while he did. _How_ could he have thought _that_!? “A _ghost_?” he snickered. “Really?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Martin.”

They fell into a somewhat comfortable silence. Sure, there were worms, and Sasha and Tim were still in terrible danger (if they weren’t already dead), but sitting there with Jon, trapped in the room that had turned into his home for the past four months...Martin thought it was almost _companionable_?

Jon quietly poked at his wrapped arm, wincing slightly, and Martin felt the urge to reach out to him—to wrap his arms around Jon’s thin frame and hold him tight and protect him. Sure, they’d had their moments of frustration and they’d had their arguments, but Martin knew he would miss the man when he was gone. He knew he’d think on him from time to time over the next few years, having escaped from this place unscathed, and then he would forget. Just like he always did with these sorts of things.

He...he didn’t _want_ that, though. He wanted people to know they would be _remembered_. He always tried so hard, too. He couldn’t save everyone ( _any_ one, really), and he always wanted to make the time of their fragile lives that much nicer while he was in it. It was why he’d taken up poetry a few decades back, mostly to recall some of his past, and partially to give the universe something to remember him by once he finally ended, himself.

Jon didn’t deserve this to happen to him. The universe didn’t care, but Martin did. He would protect Jon from this if he could, and could only pray that it all worked out in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: *sees Jon* i mus. protecc. ;-;
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com)!


	5. Blood and Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a rough one, so there's a TL;DR at the bottom for anyone who's not to keen on gore.
> 
> CW: Gore (like. _lots_ of gore), blood, self-harm/mutilation, worms (the last one thankfully), alcohol/alcoholism/getting mad drunk, mentioned (but not described) nudity, brief mention of a needle, dead bodies (it's Gertrude), injuries, self-loathing

The wall pounded from the other side, and Martin knew this would be Jon’s end. He was scared, really. He didn’t _want_ to be consumed by worms or whatever else was coming to kill them—it’d take _ages_ to heal back up enough to be seen in public, and besides that, everyone would assume he was dead. Then what was he supposed to do? He wouldn’t be able to go back to see his mother again, that was for sure. And would he have to break into his own flat to recover his communicator so he could call the Aurora back to pick him up?

It didn’t matter. He would be unconscious soon enough, and then he could figure out what to do after he woke back up.

He only hoped that Jon’s screams of pain and terror didn’t haunt him for the rest of forever.

Martin reached out and pulled Jon to his chest, and Jon didn’t fight him. He could feel the man’s heart beat rapidly, and he shook against Martin’s bulk. He was so small and fragile and _scared_.

Jon clutched at Martin’s sleeve, his breath fast and panicked.

“I thought that wall was meant to be solid?” Martin shouted over the noise.

“So did I,” Jon whimpered. “We don’t have any sort of weapon, do we?”

Weapons. Yes. All of his weapons were at his flat. _Why_ couldn’t he have hidden his pistol away in here? Or maybe a bomb? Would a bomb work on worms? “I mean- I mean, I suppose we could use—”

“Don’t say the corkscrew!”

“Okay...”

Jon shook violently, now. His breath was hot on Martin’s arm as Jon curled inwards and partially around Martin. Martin tried not to think about that too much; he tried not to think about Jon’s feelings for _him_.

Over the blare of the fire alarm that had gone off a few minutes ago and the pounding on the wall, Jon shouted again. “H-how many of them are outside of the door?”

Martin whipped his head toward the door. “I don’t know,” he cried, despairing. “I can’t see because the window is covered in _worms—_!”

“Right,” Jon gulped. “Right. Damn.” He took a shaky breath, squeezing Martin’s arm tight and ducking his head as the wall thumped once more. “Well, Martin I guess this is—”

What happened next involved a lot of loud sounds and lots of held-in screams. He clutched Jon tightly in his arms, pivoting his body so Jon would be protected while Martin took the brunt of the oncoming worms. He didn’t think he could save him, but he could at least give him a chance. Maybe the worms would carve their way through him and ignore Jon completely if Martin covered him over. Sure, Martin would be revealed for the freak he was, but he felt this was an acceptable punishment for him not saving Tim. He couldn’t just _not try_ like he had when he’d seen Tim wander out into the corridors, unknowing of the dangers that were squirming out of the floors and walls and—

“Hi, guys!”

Martin’s head jerked up fast enough to give a person whiplash. “Tim!”

And Tim it was. He looked a bit worse for wear; his trousers were slightly torn, and he staggered about like a drunk. His eyes were hazy and unfocused, but it was _Tim_.

Jon started the sputter, letting go of Martin and moving away from him, but Martin was too happy to see his friend alive. “You made it!”

“Funny story really,” Tim said breathlessly. “I ran into the office—worms everywhere; horrible death and everything—tripped and fell in some boxes and there were, like, twenty cans of gas in there!”

Martin jumped up and caught Tim before he fell over. He wanted to wrap his arms around him and pull him tight; he’d been so sure that Tim was dead, and yet here he was. He was alive and...well… “A-are you alright? You seem a bit…”

Tim waved his hand, grinning like an idiot. “Fine! Fine! Gas. Bit light-headed. Not a lot of ventilation in the tunnels. Come on!”

Then he turned and started to walk off into the creepy dark tunnels that shouldn’t exist.

“I-into the tunnels?” Jon stammered, clearly thinking the same.

“Yeah!” Tim chirped, turning back around and almost falling backwards. “Actually not that many worms in there anymore. I think they’ve mostly gone into the Archive. Although the ones down here are faster for some reason. And quieter.”

Well that certainly wasn’t very reassuring; Martin would have to be more careful. Well, really they _all_ would, but if Martin got bit and didn’t notice immediately, the others would call him out on his lack of pain. Either that, or he’d be walking about with a worm inside him, and that honestly sounded worse.

Jon gulped. “You’re not bitten, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so!” Tim answered. “Have a look!”

And suddenly Tim’s trousers were no longer on his body. Martin felt his cheeks flush, and he forced himself to look away from Tim’s admittedly rather toned legs. Jon was covering his eyes, face the colour of cherries. “Yes, alright Tim,” Jon groaned. “You look fine. Put them back on, please.”

Thankfully, Tim did not press the matter, and he didn’t try to strip any further. Martin glanced back at Jon, at his face screwed up in pain and frustration. “C-can you walk, Jon?” Martin asked.

“No,” Jon answered, lip curling up into a sneer. “I can limp.”

“Then let’s go!” Tim cheered, once again turning to lead the way. The myriad fire extinguishers clipped to his belt clinked together.

Martin passed Jon the tape recorder at his request, and helped him struggle to his feet. Jon very pointedly didn’t look at him, but Martin ignored it and kept a firm grip on him as they chased after Tim.

* * *

He hadn’t wanted to run away. He hadn’t wanted to leave them. But the _worms_. God, the _worms_. They were everywhere, wriggling and crawling and squirming and twisting—

He wanted to vomit, but he was pretty sure his stomach was now full of worms.

Martin leaned against the brick wall of the tunnel he’d darted off into when he’d first felt the worms enter his system and tried to catch his breath. That was also difficult, thanks to the worms. There were _so many_.

He had to get them out. He could feel them inside, and he had to _get them out_!

Shaking, he removed his clothes and laid them off to the side, far from himself so that any blood he spilled wouldn’t wind up staining them over. The worms were bad enough. He didn’t need anyone questioning why his shirt had turned bright red, nor why it was slowly drying black.

Clutching the corkscrew in his hand, he took as deep a breath as he could manage. _Just get it over with,_ he chided. _The faster this gets taken care of, the better._

Slowly, he carved a gash into his chest. Blood pooled on top of his heaving chest, but he ignored it. Inside, the worms slithered about, eating away at bits off him. He speared a couple with the corkscrew before leaning over and letting his stomach empty itself. Some of the worms caught in his throat, and he hacked and coughed until half the worms that had burrowed into him were already out. They squiggled toward him, but he smashed his fist down on their fleshy bodies, scattering blood and gore. A few bones in his fingers cracked, but he favoured to ignore that and kept punching the ground until the monsters stopped moving. 

And then he kept on plunging away. He could do this. He could do this. It didn’t matter how gruesome or uncomfortable he was. It didn’t matter that he should be screaming in pain and horror. It didn’t matter that no one would hear him, and that no one would even know if he died down here (had he been capable of such things). He could do this. Just get them out, move away from them, pass out for a bit to heal up, and then keep going.

He could do this.

It took him a long while. Too long, he felt, but finally, it was done. The worms were dead, and he would be all right. For now.

He took a shaky breath, crawling away from the pile of bile and foul worms festering on the floor. Taking a flask of water from his jean pocket, he poured the water over him and washed off the now-drying blood that caked his skin. His eyes grew hazy, and he let himself lie on the cold stone floor.

Here, now, he could breathe. He could just lay there and breathe.

* * *

“Don’t worry, dear,” Dr. Carmilla’s voice leered. “It’ll only hurt for a little while.”

Martin struggled to pull himself out of whatever fog had clouded his mind. Where was he? What had happened?

She had told him she could help him with his pain—that she knew how to make it go away. But now he was tied down to some table in a sterile room and he knew—he _knew_ —that he’d made a grave mistake.

He felt the pinprick pain of a needle slip into his neck, and he tried to move—tried to see what she was doing. All he’d wanted was some stronger medication, or maybe some procedure that would make it stop. He’d lived with it for so long, and his mother’s health was getting worse. He couldn’t afford to become invalid from the pain.

He tried to move his mouth, to say that he’d changed his mind, but found that he was unable to. Paralysed, he lay there silent and still as the doctor he’d thought was his friend began to cut him open and do her work.

* * *

The cot sank as Jonny sat down next to him. Martin looked up from his flayed arm, knowing there was no point in hiding the tears falling from his eyes.

Jonny took a hit from his flask. “We all went through it,” he said softly. “All ‘cept for Brian, anyway, and I think he still _tried_.”

“I just...I wanted to feel _something_ ,” Martin whispered, wiping away some of the blood.

“But that’s how she got you, right? No more pain?”

“Y-yeah…”

He passed the flask to Martin, and Martin took a trepid sip. It didn’t taste great, and there was no burn he’d always associated with alcohol.

“Just take it one day at a time, Martin,” Jonny said, taking the flask back. “Talk to Ivy if it gets real bad; she’s a pro at it.” He got up to leave. “And there’s more liquor in the fridge if you need to be unconscious for a bit. We’ve all been there.”

Martin nodded, and after the door slid close behind the first mate, he leaned forward and let himself cry.

* * *

Dreams. Dreams were rarely pleasant. Dreams usually brought back painful memories. But being awake wasn’t always any better, Martin decided, wiping his groggy face and taking in his surroundings.

He was still in the tunnels, and the cold stone floor and brick wall he’d leaned against had decided to turn to dirt and steel. Martin shrugged, dragging himself unsteadily to his feet. It wasn’t exactly the _weirdest_ thing he’d ever experienced.

His clothes were still in a wadded heap across from him, so he leaned down, picked them up, and hastily redressed. As he did so, a horrible, screeching shriek echoed through the tunnels. He didn’t know what that was, and quite frankly, he didn’t _want_ to know.

“Hopefully Jon and Tim are all right,” he muttered, tugging his jumper over his head. “Now I’ve just gotta find a way out.”

He picked a direction and started walking. The tunnels were dark and quiet, and they left him alone with his thoughts.

“The place is old,” he said, trying to fill the emptiness with _something_. “Wonder how long it’s been here?” He ran a finger along the now stone wall. “Doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it? The way you keep changing.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Figures, anyway. It’d be just my luck to get caught in some crazy labyrinth.”

He sighed. “Still, you’re probably not as old as I am. Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?”

It all felt so distant, sometimes—the years he’d lived. Sometimes he could still convince himself that he was only twenty-eight. But times like these where he was alone and the world was quiet, he could feel the weight of centuries pressing down on him.

“Don’t really know how long I’ve been alive,” he said. “I know it’s been a long time, but I sorta lost track after...two centuries? Something like that. Ivy probably knows. I should ask her next time—how long it’s been. Assuming they don’t just...forget about me.”

He knew it was ridiculous; they wouldn’t forget him. The only Mechanism that had ever been left behind was Nastya, and that was by her own choice, or so he’d been told. He wished he could’ve met her—she’d sounded nice. Well, nice for a Mechanism, anyway.

Sometimes he wished he could be like the rest of them. Sometimes he wished he got bored enough to blow up planets or make a star go supernova. But really, he wasn’t cut out for it. The others had assured him that they weren’t always like this (except for maybe Tim). They’d told him they’d been like him, once, but over the decades, centuries, millenia, they’d lost sight of the point in caring.

He didn’t want that to happen to him. Life was...important. Just because he was a drifter through the ages didn’t mean everyone else was. If he’d stayed just as finite, he knew he really wouldn’t appreciate a bunch of immortal space pirates jumping in and blowing up the planet. It just seemed so cruel to take a life into his hands and decide whether or not they continued to live.

It felt like Carmilla, really.

Martin shuddered and kept walking. He sang softly to himself, recalling the tales he’d been told and the stories he’d lived. He was about halfway through the story of Camelot when he spotted a doorway to his left. A way out? Or maybe it was just another passageway.

He peeked inside, face twisting into a grimace at the sight before him. A corpse laid before him—an old woman slumped over in a wooden chair and surrounded by boxes and boxes of old cassette tapes. Three gunshot wounds sat squarely in her chest. Martin gulped and crept closer.

The body was old. She’d clearly been down here for a long time. Old dried blood hung off her shirt, and shrivelled grey hair hung over her still-open eyes. Martin wasn’t sure how he knew, but somehow he _Knew_ that this was the body of Gertrude Robinson.

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He’d seen worse, but seeing her like this was...disconcerting. He’d known she’d likely been murdered, but murder was just another part of his bizarre life, now. He’d just never expected he’d find out what happened to her.

Leaning forward, he gently closed her eyelids. He felt he should say something, give some sort of eulogy, but he’d never met her before, and even if he had and just didn’t remember it, well, he didn’t remember. “We’ll find out who did this,” he finally murmured. “We won't let them get away with it forever.”

He turned and walked away. Maybe he would find her again and snag some of those tapes. Maybe he should just turn this over to the authorities. Yeah, that seemed the better option. It’s what Regular Martin would’ve done, anyway, and quite frankly, he didn’t really want to get thrust into some crazy murder mystery. He’d had quite enough of those, thank you very much.

He was relieved when he found the trapdoor leading up to the Archives. He was less relieved when he saw how much blood surrounded it. Had someone died? Were Jon and Tim dead because he didn’t stay with and protect them?

Relief flooded through him when he saw Jon and Tim alive. They looked rough, though, and...oh God, the worms had gotten them. Tim still looked a bit out of it, and Jon was wrapped in a blanket while nurses tended to the hundreds of honeycomb wounds that laced his body. He looked up, and their eyes met. Martin wanted to rush over—to hold him to his chest and apologise for leaving them over and over. But Jon wouldn’t like that, and Jon was injured. Martin couldn’t do anything about it.

The nurses checked him out, but found no wounds on his body. Scans brought up nothing, despite Martin’s concern that they would notice his mechanical nerves. He was cleared to go, but instead of leaving, he stayed awhile and sat on the steps outside of the Institute. Jon had gone inside, and Elias told him that he should probably head in, himself, and let the man get his records so they could all go home without worrying that he was going to be the death of himself.

* * *

Martin collapsed against the door inside his flat, rubbing his temple. It was all just... _far_ too much. He needed a drink. He needed twelve. He didn't care, as long as he knocked himself out good and proper for a long time.

Crawling into his kitchen on shaking hands and knees, he opened the fridge up and pulled out a few bottles of whiskey. He honestly didn't know why he'd bought so much when he'd first come back from the Aurora. Maybe he'd known something horrible would happen. Maybe it didn't matter.

He leaned back against a cabinet and flicked open the first bottle. "I'm literally immortal," he muttered to himself after chugging the whole thing. "Or close enough to it, anyway." He opened the second bottle. "I shouldn't get so scared like that. M'not _supposed_ to!"

The second bottle disappeared down his throat. He'd seen planets burn, people die in gruesome ways, and Jonny decapitate himself for a laugh! So why did _worms_ of all things terrify him!?

He opened the third and final bottle, already feeling a bit hazy. He'd be out soon, at least he hoped. There were tears flowing down his cheeks, and he'd honestly forgotten why he was crying. Was it Yggdrasil, and those terror-stricken moments after the Outer Gods had arrived in the system? Was it the cold, heartless laugh of Carmilla ringing in his ears as she inflicted upon him the last physical pain he would ever feel? Was it running through the dark, scared and alone, knowing he may have abandoned his friends to their deaths?

The third bottle was gone. Martin made it about halfway across the kitchen before passing out on the floor.

* * *

Jon and Tim’s wounds would scar horribly, and it burned Martin’s heart. This was his fault; if he’d just stayed with them and _tried_ , then they wouldn’t have gotten hurt. But no, he’d been too scared of something that couldn’t even hurt him.

He’d said he was sorry, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t abandon any of them again. They were his friends, and even if he would outlive them all by millennia, he would do everything he could to protect them from the harshness of the universe. He owed them that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brutality. Got this scene in my mind and couldn't get it out unless I actually wrote the damn thing.
> 
> **TL;DR**  
>  _Martin and Jon are still trapped in the storage room and the exterior wall is being hit from the other side. They hold each other, and Martin prays that he can protect Jon, even if his true nature is exposed. Fortunately, it's just Tim, and the three of them escape into the tunnels._  
>  Unfortunately, they are attacked by the worms and Martin is forced to leave the others behind to protect him. He removes the worms that infected him and takes a rest, dreaming of his conversion into a Mechanism at the hands of Dr. Carmilla, and a later time where he drank a bit with Jonny post-conversion. When he wakes up, he hears the scream of Jane Prentiss's death and can only hope that Jon and Tim are all right.  
> He wanders around a bit, trying to find his way out, and he stumbled across the body of Gertrude Robinson. Once he finds his way out, he informs the people necessary, gives Jon his statement, and heads home so he can pass out and forget that any of this happened, and that people got hurt because he was too afraid of being found out to protect them.
> 
> Martin just needs a break...
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) and let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	6. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's a short chapter, and it's time for some Not!Sasha bullshit! Seriously. We all hate Not!Sasha. They can go burn. Or get obliterated.
> 
> CW: Gaslighting

“Tea!” Martin called out. It’d been about a week since the attack, and seeing as he and Sasha were the only ones who’d escaped unscathed, they were already back at work. That was all right; he didn’t mind. Sasha was a good friend, anyhow, and at least Jon and Tim were resting up at home. They deserved that much.

Sasha poked in, her blue eyes bright and smiling. Martin handed her the mug he’d made for her and started back toward his desk. “Thanks!” Sasha said. She took a deep breath, then frowned and stared at the tea like it might jump out at her. “Martin? What did you put in this?”

Martin turned, confused. “It’s peppermint oolong with a touch of honey, same as always.”

She shook her head. “Martin, I’m allergic to peppermint. You’ve never given me peppermint tea.”

That...didn’t sound right. Hadn’t he always given her this? No, no of _course_ she was allergic. He knew that. He must’ve just forgotten. “Oh. Erm, sorry about that. Guess I’m still a bit out of it from, well, the worms.”

She shrugged, then turned and dumped the tea down the drain. Damn, he would’ve drank that and given her his own. Ah well. He set the kettle back on and started making some more. “What would you actually like, then?” he asked, determined to not get it wrong again.

“I usually drink the earl grey with cinnamon.”

He thought that’s what he always gave Jon, but sure. He must’ve gotten the two confused somehow. “Right. It’ll be just a few.”

“Thanks, Martin!” she called, heading back to her desk with a smile plastered on her face.

It was quiet with just the two of them. Elias popped down every couple of days, but that was mostly just to ensure that they were still doing their jobs. Occasionally Jon tried to force his way in, but Martin very firmly put a stop to that after the first couple of times. The man needed to _heal_ , and unlike Martin, he couldn’t do that at a very accelerated rate. His little frown was always a delight, though.

Mentally, Martin slapped himself. He wasn’t supposed to think of Jon like that. They were _barely_ friends, if even that. Just acquaintances, really. Sure, he would like to get to know him better, but he knew just how dangerous it was to get close to mortals—to someone so fragile and finite like Jonathan Sims.

Really, he’d be best leaving this place and heading back for the stars, but something held him back. It almost felt like the universe itself would be disappointed in him for not seeing things through like he’d planned. He’d come back to wrap up loose ends—to see his mother off at her end, and to properly leave his job this time. There was no point in leaving the job until she was gone, because he still appreciated being able to eat and live in a flat.

So...he couldn’t leave just yet. And he couldn’t let himself get too attached to these people. He just needed to...to fade into the background, in a way. Maybe be the ghost that Jon _apparently_ thought he was.

He wondered what it would be like to get Jon to laugh. Jon must have a good laugh.

The kettle whistled, startling Martin out of that frankly dangerous train of thought. He poured a fresh mug and steeped it with earl grey this time. It still felt wrong, really. He was certain that this was how Jon took it, not Sasha. He was _certain_ he’d always given Sasha the peppermint oolong, and Tim took the regular black earl grey.

Why else would he have peppermint oolong in the cupboards? It wasn’t _his_ preference. Right?

Good Lord, now he was questioning everything. “Just make the damn tea, Martin,” he chided. “And get back to work.”

So he did, and things proceeded normally. And the next day, he forgot about the whole thing, made tea like he normally did—like he was certain he always had since learning everyone’s preferences—and nothing was said. It wasn’t until he got home that he realised just how bizarre that was. He’d _definitely_ seen Sasha drink the tea, and she hadn’t seemed to be having any trouble or anything. She would’ve told him.

Maybe he was just imagining things. Maybe the whole thing hadn’t even happened and he was just going crazy.

The next day, he approached her about it. “Hey um...did you tell me the other day that you were allergic to peppermint?” he asked.

Sasha looked up from her laptop. “No. Why would I do that?”

Martin shrugged, self-consciousness weighing him down. “Not sure. Must’ve misremembered something.”

She scooted her chair back and turned fully to face him while she fiddled with her short blonde hair. “I’m allergic to _cinnamon_ ,” she said, “but not peppermint. Besides, you always make me peppermint oolong.”

“That’s...that’s what I _thought_ ,” he replied. Why had he thought otherwise? 

“You must’ve dreamed it.”

“Yeah...yeah, I guess so.” It didn’t feel right, but what else did he have to go off of? “Sorry to bother you. I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry about it too much, Martin. It happens.”

“Sure.”

Was he seriously losing his mind now? Sure, he’d been alive a good bit longer than the human mind was capable of comprehending, and he had certainly forgotten quite a lot, but this didn’t seem right at all.

Maybe Sasha was right; maybe it’d just been a dream.

He frowned into his own tea mug, took a sip, then settled down to do his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Follow me over on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com)!


	7. Losing Track

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Shouting (in public and private), bit of secondhand embarrassment, Jon being a paranoid mess, childhood trauma, Martin getting triggered, verbal abuse, touch of depression.
> 
> Let's play a game of "How Long Can Martin Lie About His CV?" :D  
> (At the same time, let's also play a game of "How Many Times Is This Writer Going to Italicize Words?")

Jon had _apparently_ stabbed himself with a bread knife, despite there being no bread _or_ knife in Jon’s office. In fact, there wasn’t anything really all that sharp in his office save for some pens. Pens which had no blood on them. And he was also now acting even more paranoid than he already had been.

Martin wasn’t an idiot. It was clear that the events with Jane Prentiss had rattled him bad. But there was more, and he had a sinking feeling it was about his finding the body of Gertrude Robinson. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Jon went down to the tunnels on a fairly normal basis, and everyone was well aware that he was watching them outside of work.

And he always looked so _tired_. He hadn’t shaved in probably a month by now, and his hair was constantly unkempt. His clothes were always rumpled with the occasional cobweb or two stuck to them somewhere, and his eyes, bright as they always had been, drooped with exhaustion. Martin had caught him sleeping at his desk more than a couple times.

He was worried.

He knew he shouldn’t be; Jon was a grown man and more than capable of taking care of himself. If he chose not to, there wasn’t much Martin could do about it. Besides, he’d promised himself that he would fade more into the background and let things happen. He shouldn’t get invested— _couldn’t_ get invested.

Which is why this was a very bad idea. Dragging Jon out of the Archives had always been a pain, but now with all this extra paranoia and nervous energy? There was hardly a chance.

Still, he had to try. Besides, he couldn’t help but be a bit curious; the man really was quite the recluse, and he was fascinating in his own right. Maybe some poems about him could live on in one of Martin’s journals.

He opened the door, not even bothering to knock. He probably should’ve, seeing as Jon was in the middle of recording. At least he’d seemed almost finished. “Was just going down to the café,” Martin said. “Did you want a sandwich?”

Jon jumped, practically almost hitting his knees against the desk. His face flashed with guilt that shed away as quickly as it appeared. Whatever he’d been doing, he hadn’t expected nor wanted to be interrupted. At least there weren’t a bunch of pictures of Tim’s house this time. That had been...awkward.

Jon’s face soured as he processed the question. “That depends,” he said dryly. “Are you- are you going to keep hovering around me if I go to the canteen?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I just worry. You needed five stitches after you _‘accidentally_ ’ stabbed yourself with the bread knife. If you’re still claiming that’s what happened—”

“I am.”

“—then you’ll forgive me for worrying when you use sharp knives.”

He waited. If Jon refused, it would be...fine. Jon had already made it quite clear that he had no interest in Martin—platonic or otherwise. Martin may have considered him a friend, but Jon clearly held no such sentiments. That was fine—made it easier to shove his concerns and still-budding feelings for the man to the back of his mind.

Jon sighed. “Fine. I’ll come with. Just give me a second to grab my coat.”

Martin’s mind went blank. “Sure,” he managed to say before closing the door.

He was supposed to reject him. This was supposed to crush down that bubble of hope for _something more_ that still sat squarely in his chest. This was supposed to make things _easier_.

The sound of Jon’s voice wafted through the door, but Martin took a few steps away so it wouldn’t seem like he was listening in once Jon came out. Why had he accepted this? He was always so paranoid these days; was he trying to gauge if Martin was a threat to him in some bizarre way? Or maybe...maybe he was... _interested_?

Martin shivered, and he wasn’t sure if it was with excitement or fear of Jon’s possible reciprocated feelings. Jon was...well, he was pretty cute. Aesthetically pleasing. When he let some of his walls down, he was even...well, not necessarily _pleasant_ , but he wasn’t bad company, and Martin had always been a bit of a sap.

But it didn’t matter. He’d promised himself after Hereward’s death that he wouldn’t get too involved with mortals again. Then again, that’d been... _centuries_ ago?

God, he was a mess.

After a minute or so, Jon emerged from his office. Martin pointedly ignored the shape of a tape recorder in his coat pocket. He shuffled a bit uncomfortably up to Martin. “Well?”

Martin smiled as best he could. “Café’s just a quick walk away, but we should try and beat that lunch rush.” He opened the door to the stairwell up, but he could sense a faint smile on his back. Maybe this would get Jon to finally relax a bit. He certainly hoped so.

The crisp February air slapped across his face when he opened the door out. Martin took a deep breath; beautiful winter days weren’t exactly the most common thing in London. Jon shivered in the wind and pinched his face with distaste, but said nothing.

That was all right—Martin had centuries-worth of starting conversations.

“Nice to get out of there for a bit, don’t you think?” he asked, letting go of the door behind them.

“I suppose,” Jon grunted.

Martin smiled at him, hoping to put the man at ease. “Not a fan of the cold?”

Jon shuffled his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “Not particularly, no.”

“Least it’s not raining?” Martin suggested.

Jon shrugged, and let the conversation die.

Martin fought the urge to roll his eyes. So Jon was going to play it like _that_ , then, eh? Well Martin would show him. Probably. Maybe he should just let the conversation stay dead instead.

They walked up to the little café. It was posh, but he’d expected as much. A short dog tied to a post outside yapped at them as they entered. There were a few young couples eating inside, but the place was still mostly quiet.

They ordered some overpriced tea and sandwiches, then found a place to sit after a brief squabble about whether or not they should head back to the Institute’s canteen. Once again, Martin tried to strike up a conversation.

“Always meant to visit this place after it opened,” he said, trying to get comfortable in the booth. “I think they opened up right before all the worm business? Never got around to it after.”

Jon said nothing, so Martin let himself ramble for a bit. “Glad that’s over with, now,” he chuckled. “It’s nice to be back home without worrying too much about worms.”

Jon blinked. “You...went back to your flat?”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “‘Course I did. I mean, I’m not living in the _Archives_ still.”

“Well, yes,” Jon muttered, fidgeting nervously. “I knew that. Just um...I didn’t expect you to go back there, is all.”

Ah, so Jon was concerned in his own weird way. That was sweet. As long as he didn’t catch the man staking out his flat and watching him later that evening, it was sweet. But Martin didn’t voice any of that, and instead he shrugged. “I mean, it’s still my home. Don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

“What about your mother? Isn't she still alive?”

He’d never told Jon about his mother. In fact, he was pretty sure that the only one who knew about her from work was Tim. Well, Elias probably knew, but he hardly counted, and it didn’t explain how _Jon_ knew.

Given Jon’s stalking tendencies lately, though, it would make sense that he knew.

“Well, yes, I do,” Martin said carefully. “I don’t remember mentioning her before, but she lives in a home out in Devon. Can't really go there.”

“Oh...right.”

Thankfully, their food came before anything could get more awkward.

He smiled and thanked the waiter before taking a bite of his sandwich. It was surprisingly good, if a bit expensive. Jon picked at his own sandwich a bit before taking a tentative bite of his own. Martin should...try to get Jon to relax. But how?

“So um…,” Martin said. “What about your family?”

Jon looked up, his eyes flashing with something resembling fear and caution. “What about them?”

Martin shrugged. “Well...I don’t really know all that much about you. Thought it might be nice to talk about...I dunno, mundane stuff?”

Jon gave him a look that wasn’t quite a scowl, but might be approaching one. “I don’t have any family.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s...fine.”

And back to the awkward silence it was. Martin played with a chip for a moment, mildly appalled at the amount of salt on it. Admittedly, he was pretty sure this place was owned by an American, so he supposed that made sense. “Any um...friends? Outside of work, anyway?”

Jon scoffed. “Not really, no.”

Now that was just sad. “No one from- from uni, or another job, or-?”

“I don’t need _friends_ , Martin.”

Now that was just plain sad. What the hell, Jon? “Sorry, that just seems a bit...lonely.”

Jon stabbed a chip with a fork. “Well I’m _fine_.”

Martin’s eyes drifted to the place on Jon’s shoulder where he knew a stab wound was covered by his shirt. He still didn’t know what had really caused it. Had some horrible monster come in and done that, or had Jon done it to himself? He had no way of knowing, and Jon’s utter refusal to admit to _anything_ lately wasn’t helping.

And there were those scars from the worms. Tim had them too, and it was all because Martin had abandoned them. They were lucky to be alive, and it was Martin’s fault that they hadn’t made it out unscathed.

“What?” Jon said, his voice deep and accusatory.

Martin blinked. He hadn’t meant to stare. “N-nothing,” he stammered. “Sorry.”

Jon crossed his arms and leaned back in his booth. “So we’re lying, now?”

Why did he have to wind up with a crush on this insufferable prick? He could’ve picked _literally anyone_ , and his heart just latched onto _Jonathan Sims_. He sighed. “Look, is it too hard to understand that I’m _worried_!? You- you lock yourself up in that office, muttering about monsters and statements and _God knows_ what else! You somehow wind up getting _stabbed_ , and you look like you’re seconds away from a mental breakdown 24/7! And now you say you have literally _no one_ to go to for help, and I’m just—” he took a breath “—I’m _worried_. I want to _help_ , but you won’t let _anyone_ near you anymore.”

“Well!” Jon exclaimed, slipping out of his seat and throwing on his coat. “Maybe I don’t _want_ anyone near me!”

Martin blanked. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t _stop_ him. “Look, Jon, I’m just trying to—”

“No, _you_ listen!” Jon snarled. Some of the other patrons in the café shot them some concerned glances, but none jumped up to help. Typical Londoners. “I don’t know what you’re _trying_ to do with- with this all—” he swung his hands around wildly “—tea and lunch and pretending to _care_ about me all the time, but I’m your _boss_ , Martin, and if this is some sort of attempt to make me _trust_ you or something, you’re _wasting your time_!”

His throat convulsed. What had he done? He just wanted to help. Why was Jon suddenly so _angry_? Was...was it really too much to believe that he was genuinely concerned?

Jon stormed out without another word, his lunch completely abandoned. And Martin was alone, with several other people staring at him. He felt small.

“‘Re yeh all right, lad?” an older Irish gentleman asked, placing his hand tentatively on Martin’s shoulder.

Slowly, Martin nodded. “Yeah...yeah I think- think I’m just gonna go.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had yelled at him so angrily, and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. Still, it hurt.

Quietly, as the rest of the customers went back to their own food and conversations, Martin packed up the rest of his lunch and threw out Jon’s. He stepped back out in the February air, took a breath, and headed for the tube; the last place he wanted to be was in that dusty old Archive with a man who clearly hated him and two coworkers who would want to know exactly what’d happened.

The underground was loud, crowded, and smelled awful. It was a distraction, at least. Then he was at his flat, and all the pent up frustration and pain forced its way out of him.

He curled up on his bed and let the tears fall freely. He didn’t even really know why it upset him so much. It wasn’t like he was close with Jon, and clearly he wasn’t _going_ to be. So why did it _hurt_ so much?

Deep down, he knew exactly why. His mother had said some similar things to him, before. Well, she’d _shouted_ them, anyway. And even if those memories were distant and fuzzy with centuries of experience between then and now, it still triggered that same feeling of hopeless despair.

All he’d ever wanted to do was help. And...maybe he was just destined to never get to.

Sleep did not come easily.

* * *

 _Why does no one listen to me?_ _  
__I know it’s not my own fault but it feels it_ _  
__When they look at me, all they see is_ _  
__A fragile man with a caring soul_ _  
__And too much care going ‘round_

 _  
__But I know that one day all will die_ _  
__Is it too much to want to help?_  
 _Is it too much to ask for appreciation?_ _  
Is it too much to—_

“Martin.” Jon’s voice cut through the silence like a blade on skin, making Martin nearly jump out of his chair. Instead, he knocked his knees on the desk, then feigned being in pain. Just because he couldn’t feel it didn’t mean that it wouldn’t have hurt.

His journal was...right there—his very soul open and exposed. He quickly slapped it shut, managing to stand up this time. “Y-yes?”

“Sit down.”

He hesitated. “What is—”

“ _Sit_.”

He sat. Jon glowered at him, and with Martin sitting and Jon leaning on the desk with taut muscles and wild eyes, it was a bit overwhelming. He immediately felt himself shrink inwards. After years of making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible, being the focus of angered attention was...a lot.

“Why did you lie to me about Trevor?” Jon snarled. The tape recorder in his hand whirred.

“What?”

“Why did you tell me he was dead?”

Martin blinked, trying his best to run through literally _anything_ that could’ve provoked such a hate-filled confrontation. “Sorry, who’s…who’s Trev—”

“Trevor Herbert,” Jon said. “The tramp? The vampire hunter. You told me he died.”

 _Oh._ _That_ Trevor. Why the hell did Jon suddenly care about this? Care about it...a _lot_? “But I mean he…did. Didn’t he?”

“Apparently not,” he spat.

“Oh!” Martin chuckled nervously. “Sorry.”

“‘Sorry’?”

“I mean, I-I didn’t ever actually meet him. I just heard some of the other researchers mentioning it.” And mortals died literally all the time. Who was he to question people who knew more than him about some topics?

“ _What_?”

Martin nervously reached a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I could’ve sworn they said he died. I mean…maybe they just said he looks like death or something…”

Jon scoffed. His eyes were dark and narrow, and his lips curled up into a disgusted sneer. 

Seriously, of all the people Martin could’ve had a crush on… “I really thought they said he was dead.”

“So that’s it,” Jon said slowly, enunciating every syllable with a venom that probably would’ve even scared d’Ville. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Y-yes,” Martin gulped. Seriously, what was he supposed to _do_ in this situation? “You seem to be taking this kind of personal—”

“Because you keep _lying_ to me, Martin!” Jon shouted, slamming his hands down onto the desk.

“About what!?” Martin cried, backing away from those manic eyes and that frenzied energy.

“I don’t know, but you are!”

Jon pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and slapped it down in front of Martin. It was an old letter—one he was certain he’d thrown away.

“Where did you get that? Have you been going through the _bin_!?”

“It was in the old document room,” Jon said, “just next to where you used to sleep. Your handwriting. ‘If the others find out I’ve been lying.’ Lying about _what_ , Martin?

God, what _wasn’t_ he lying about? Not like he could just say that. ‘Oh hey yeah, I’m immortal, and I let you and Tim get hurt because I was too scared you’d find out! I’ve survived at least one apocalypse and have seen cosmic horrors that the human mind is physically incapable of comprehending! Also my CV is faked!’ Yeah, that didn’t sound too good. “Look, just forget about it, okay? Please.”

“I- _can’t-_ forget it.” He sounded like he might be on the verge of tears. Which Martin supposed would make sense, given that he seemed to be having a mental breakdown. “Everyone in this place has so many _goddamn_ secrets and I can’t trust a word you say. Not about this and not about Trevor—”

“Jon, just—”

“ _Martin_!” Jon screamed, slamming his hands down onto the desk so violently that the entire room seemed to rattle.

Martin sunk deep into his seat, wishing he could just _hide_. What was he supposed to _do_? “Okay! Okay! ...Okay,” he said, holding his hands up in defeat and hoping he could abate some of Jon’s fury with something, _anything_. “Just…just promise you won’t…fire me.”

" _Fire_ you," Jon snorted, his eyes unblinking and raging. “Fine.”

Martin took a deep breath. He couldn’t admit about the Mechanisms; it just wasn’t worth the risk. Plus, it might piss Jon off even _more_. But he could admit to the lie that landed him in the Institute in the first place. Really, he’d forgotten about it during his time in the stars, but there had been a few things Elias had said and done since his return that had reminded him all too well of that particular deception.

Hopefully it would sate Jon.

“I lied on my CV,” Martin said carefully.

“…What.”

It wasn’t even a question. Martin gulped and continued. “I don’t have a master’s in parapsychology. I don’t even have a degree.” Technically true, although he’d picked up plenty of knowledge during his lifespan, and he was pretty sure he understood more about things like quantum physics and other intricacies of the universe than a human had any reason to.

“I was 17,” he continued, straining his long memory for the information he needed. “My mum, she had- she had some problems, and I ended up dropping out of school trying to support us. I tried everything but nowhere was hiring, so I just kind of started to lie on my application, sending them out to just about anywhere. For some reason my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias and – and then a job here. But most of my employment details are made up. I-I’m only 29!” Again, still technically true by Earth time. Time travel and ageless immortality were... _useful_ for that sort of thing.

Jon stared at him, lips slightly parted with shock. Then he- he _laughed_. Just a short, disbelieving chuckle but...he _smiled_. “Right, I-I uh…I believe you.” He said it like he couldn’t believe it himself.

This change was...a bit too similar to those times when he’d pissed off Raphaella, only to wake up with a venomous snake in his bed. Still, this was _Jon_ , and after the whole thing at the café and all his unrelenting paranoia, it was...it was nice to see. “…Why are you smiling?”

“Yes, um, I just...I won’t mention it to Elias. Just between us.”

Martin took a quiet, somewhat relieved breath and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “So you don’t mind?”

“To be quite honest, Martin, I’m really rather relieved.” He clicked off the tape recorder, and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

“What um…,” Martin cautioned to ask, “what did you think I was hiding?”

“I…” Jon shook his head. “It sounds so stupid now, in my head. You’re just not…”

“Not what?”

Jon collapsed into the chair across from Martin and hunched forward, dragging his hands down his face. “I-I...I thought you might’ve...might’ve been behind Gertrude’s death…”

So that was it. “I’m not,” Martin said flatly, “although I suppose your whole paranoia thing makes a bit more sense.”

Raising his head a bit, Jon met his eyes, and Martin saw fear lurking behind all the barricades he’d put up around himself. “I’m sorry,” he said, defeated.

“I’m...I’m not mad.” And that was true, he _wasn’t_. Maybe upset, a touch sad, but not angry. “Honestly, I’m surprised you even _considered_ me given your ah...opinion on my work ethic.”

Jon chuckled, eyes focused on the floor. “Thank you,” he whispered.

They sat there for a moment longer, very pointedly _not_ looking at each other. Martin tried to think of something to say that would help—to lighten the mood _somehow_. “So,” he ventured, “first a ghost and now a ruthless killer?”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon sighed. But there was a smile, even if it was just a small one.

Martin continued, hoping he might be able to draw a laugh out of Jon. “Next thing you’ll come up with is...oh, I dunno, a secret agent or something equally ridiculous.”

Jon met his gaze, his face screwed up in complete confusion, chuckling. “What?”

“A shark disguised as a human?”

The confusion was twisting into laughter. Just one more, something absolutely insane that was in no way possible.

“Immortal space pirate?”

 _There_. Jon let out a snort, then his chest heaved as he tried to keep it in, but he stood no chance to Martin’s carefully crafted grin. He leaned back in his seat, smile wide and happy. It was the first time Martin had really heard him laugh, even when Tim had dragged them all out to drinks back before Prentiss. It was a lovely, wholesome sound.

Oh shit, he was crying.

“Jon?”

Jon wiped at the tears on his cheeks. “S-sorry,” he giggled, sniffling. “Just...it’s been...it’s nice to- to…”

“Can I hug you?”

The question leapt out of his mouth before he really had a chance to think about its implications. Jon blinked at him, eyes tearing up just a bit again. “I...yes,” he said, then whispering a soft, desperate “ _please_.”

Martin stood and rounded his desk to crouch beside Jon, holding out his arms, but making no sudden movements and not moving any closer. Trying to keep from scaring Jon was like trying to handle octokittens, really.

Then Jon leaned in, twisting Martin’s jumper in his small hands and pressing his face into Martin’s chest. Slowly, Martin circled his arms around him and held him tight. He was so small—tiny, really; Martin could feel each bone through skin and fabric. He’d always been skinny, but how much weight had he lost recently? _Got a bit to spare, myself,_ Martin thought wryly. 

Jon shivered, and Martin could feel his jumper growing wet with tears. He held him tighter, softly nuzzling his nose into Jon’s hair. How long had it been, he wondered, since someone had held this man? Sure, he was sharp and prickly and a bit of an arse, but he needed people around him just as much as Martin did. And Jon was clinging to him like he was a lifeline out in his ocean of fear and paranoia.

Immortality be damned, Jon needed someone he could trust and rely on. And if he’d chosen Martin to be that person, then so be it. He would be there—a friend in a time of need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo so like. Redeath is officially the longest fic I have ever written in my life? So that's pretty cool. At this current point, it's sitting at about 35k words and I'm only just starting s3. Thought that was kinda neat, considering the book I've been working on since like 2015 is 80k-ish. I'll link the [side blog](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com) for that, but honestly everything on there's...pretty out of date.
> 
> But yeah! Hopefully you enjoyed today's chapter! (I know I had...entirely too much fun writing it.) Next week is just Jon and Martin being friends, because I can't calm down my shipping and needed a fluff chapter before more hell breaks loose! :D
> 
> Follow me over on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) and let me know what you think of the story. Feel free to leave theories and headcanons and the like for me! I love seeing people interact with my writing, and the feedback I've gotten so far has been an absolute joy and delight ^-^


	8. Tales to Be Told

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey it's Wednesday! Guess I should actually post this, huh?
> 
> Today it's just a couple 'a dudes bein' guys. :D

Someone lightly tapped their knuckles on the door to his office. Martin looked up from the report he was working on. “Come in?” he called.

The handle slowly turned, the door cracked open, and a dark face laced with scars and tight with nervousness peeked in. Jon.

“Something wrong?” Martin asked, starting to stand. It’d been a few days since the CV Incident, as Martin had taken to calling it. Jon had made himself scarce since then, but whenever he ventured out of his office, he always seemed to relax a bit more when he caught sight of Martin.

“I erm…,” Jon said rather eloquently, opening the door a bit more and stepping through into the office. “I was thinking that...well, maybe...um…” He took a deep breath, sighed slowly through his mouth. “I wanted to know if you wanted to try lunch again.”

“Oh,” Martin said, also very eloquently. 

“I er...I know last time didn’t go well, but, well, after- after the other day, I thought maybe—”

Martin had to fight the urge to jump up and down like a giddy schoolboy. “If you’re up for it, I don’t mind,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too overly excited.

Jon’s shoulders dropped, and Martin realised just how tense the man had been. “I...good. That’s...that’s good.”

Martin glanced at the clock on his computer screen. “D-did you want to go now?”

“That was the intention,” Jon replied, fiddling with his collar. “A-although if you’re busy—”

“It can wait.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Putting off work for other activities, are we?”

“Oh shut up, Jon,” Martin snickered, rolling his eyes. He grabbed his coat from his chair and threw it on. “Let’s go.”

Jon smiled, opening the door a bit wider and stepping back out. He glanced around nervously, fidgeted with his sleeves.

Without thinking, Martin reached out and took Jon’s hand. “No one’ll hurt you,” he said, squeezing the hand. “Promise.”

And he meant it. He would defend Jon no matter what monsters came. And if in the process he revealed what he was, well...he could only hope that Jon could still accept him as one of the good kinds of monsters.

Jon stared up at him, eyes big as moons. His forest green gaze bored into him, and Martin felt almost as if Jon could read his thoughts. Maybe he could; it wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing to have happened to him.

He gave Jon’s hand another squeeze before releasing his grip. It’d been bold of him, but at least Jon hadn’t pulled away in fear or disgust. Then they headed up the stairs out of the Archives.

“Any thoughts on where to go?”

Jon shot him a shy smile, fussing with his sleeves again. “There’s a little café a few blocks down. Not the same one, of course,” he chuckled, “but I’ve been there before. It’s good.”

“All right, then. Lead the way.”

On the walk away from the Institute toward the café, Martin did his best to keep from vibrating with excitement. This was...kind of like a date, right? After all, Jon had asked _him_ to come, and it wasn’t just a whole thing where he was trying to ensure Martin was taking care of himself. Lord knew Jon was about as perceptive as a rock, but still. This felt like a date, and Martin was going to treat it that way.

He’d dreamed up so many little romantic things for him and Jon, despite being pretty sure that Jon would never see him as much more than maybe a friend. They all flooded into his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile with delight at all the soft thoughts.

“Something on your mind?”

“Hm?”

“You’re smiling.”

Martin snickered, doing his best to repress the urge to sweep Jon up into his arms and give him a little kiss on the nose. “What, am I not allowed to be happy?”

Jon raised an eyebrow, a soft smile quirking on his lips. “Well, now that you mention it…”

“Oh come off it, Jon,” Martin smirked, rolling his eyes and giving the man a light shove.

Jon stumbled and lost his footing on the sidewalk, collapsing into a heap. He blinked up at Martin, surprise etching his face. He looked down at the ground, then back up again. For a moment, Martin was afraid he might’ve accidentally hurt him, but then Jon started laughing. It rolled out from his chest, until he was holding his sides and trying to breathe in at the same time he breathed out. Martin joined in while other Londoners glared and went around them.

He reached out a hand and helped Jon up, double-checking that he was, in fact, all right. Jon kept snickering every time he looked at him, and he didn’t let go of Martin’s hand.

As they walked into the café, Martin couldn’t help but wonder just how red his face had gone.

They ordered, waited to get their food, and then sat down at a little table in the corner where Jon could keep an eye on anyone who came in the door. Quite frankly, Martin would’ve _loved_ to do that himself, but Jon was the more paranoid one. Besides, if someone came up and stabbed _Martin_ it wouldn’t be so much of a problem than if it were Jon.

Jon sipped his latte, grimacing a bit. Martin giggled. “Why did you even order coffee if you don’t like it?”

“The tea’s not right if you don’t make it,” Jon said absentmindedly, taking another sip. Then he blinked into his cup and almost spewed the drink back out. “I! Er, I mean- well—”

Had he been able to feel the pain of it, Martin was sure that his cheeks would have _burned_. As it was, he could only feel the radiant heat coming off of them and the tips of his ears.

Jon was still trying to explain himself in a way that _wasn’t_ implying that he only enjoyed Martin’s tea, but he was still failing miserably. “—just not sure what brand you use, really,” Jon spluttered, hiding his face. “But whatever it is, th-that’s the one I like.”

“Mmkay,” Martin hummed, sipping his iced mocha.

“Why did you get it iced?”

“Wha?”

“Your drink,” Jon sighed, still partially covering his cherry-coloured face with his hands. “It’s freezing out.”

Martin shrugged. “Just like it better, really. Plus iced coffees are cheaper when it’s winter, usually.”

“Oh…”

Jon poked at his salad with his fork, stabbing a single leaf and staring at it like it might bite him. “I think maybe I should’ve asked for the dressing on the side,” he grumbled as droplets of vinaigrette pooled and dripped off the lettuce.

Martin took a bite of his sandwich to hide his smile. “Maybe,” he mumbled after swallowing.

Jon looked around for a moment, then seemed to find what he was looking for. He hopped up and headed to a little pump station for condiments. Then he triumphantly returned with those little cups for ketchup or mustard that you dip your chips into. He then proceeded to start draining his salad into the cups.

Martin couldn’t stop the stupid grin on his face, nor the chuckle that slipped out. Jon stopped and looked up. “What?” he asked, as if this were a completely normal thing that normal people did.

Martin laid his head on the table and laughed into his arm and the wood. Good Lord, this man would be the death of him. He could almost feel Jon’s bewildered stare fixated on him. Sighing, he pulled himself together and sat back up. “Sorry,” he giggled, “but I think that might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

Jon frowned. “Well, there’s too much dressing,” he grumbled. “This was the best way to deal with it.”

“Still funny.”

“Right,” Jon said dryly, rolling his eyes.

At some point, Jon deemed his salad worthy and actually began to eat it. “Still too much,” he muttered.

Martin smirked and took another bite of his sandwich.

“So…,” Jon said after a few minutes of silence. “Was um...was the Institute your first job?”

“Yeah,” Martin replied.

“That must’ve been...intense?”

“Well it certainly wasn’t easy.” Martin sighed, trying to remember that far back. “I um...well obviously I wasn’t qualified in the least, but I picked stuff up pretty quick, so it worked out, I guess. What about you?”

Jon delicately stuffed a leaf in his mouth. “Mm?” he replied, looking up.

“Small talk goes both ways, Jon.”

He swallowed. “Right. Right, I know that. Um, no. It wasn’t my first job.”

“What’d you do before, then?”

Jon laid his fork to the side. “I er...I worked in the library at my university.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Oxford.”

Martin smiled. “Always wanted to go there.”

“You must really love your mother if you gave it all up, then.”

Martin hummed agreement. Jon didn’t need to know all the details of his complicated relationship with his mother. Maybe someday, if he was feeling brave enough for that, but certainly not right now.

“Did you ever think about going back?”

“Sorry?”

“Back to finish your studies. Get your degree.”

“Oh.” He was pretty sure he had, but honestly he had no idea anymore. “I think, back at the start, maybe. But um...life happened. Never really had the time.”

“That’s fair.”

Martin was about done with his sandwich, but...he didn’t want this to end. “So what did you study?”

“English and classics,” Jon replied. He perked up a bit more than usual.

“Guess you liked it?”

“Quite.”

“Tell me about it,” Martin said. He wasn’t exactly prepared for a long tirade about the Greeks and the history of epic poetry, but hearing Jon talk at length about something so important to him was like music.

After a while, they fell into that gentle silence again and finished their meals.

Finally, Jon broke the quiet. “Martin…,” he said, face contemplative, “would you...would you perhaps like to do this again sometime?”

Warmth spread through his body. “Yeah! This has been really nice!”

Jon hummed. “Agreed.”

Martin checked his watch. “We’ve still got...half an hour left of lunch break. Don’t suppose I could coax you to a stroll in the park?”

Jon stared at him, surprise briefly lighting his face. Then his face flushed and he looked away. “Ah...sure. That sounds nice.”

Grinning at just how easy it was to make Jon bashful, Martin gathered their trash and tossed it into the bin. They stepped back out into the cold and wandered to the park across the street. There were only a few other people out there—some couples, an older woman feeding the ducks and swans (despite the signs everywhere that said not to), and a pair of younger children playing tag while their mother watched.

“So Jon,” Martin said. “What do you do when you let yourself take a break from work?”

Jon blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“What are your hobbies?”

“...Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have any.”

“I do!” Jon cried, hands flailing as if that would help his cause. “You just, um...you put me on the spot!”

“Did I, now?”

He crossed his arms and grunted. “I like to read.”

“Read what?”

“Mostly ah- fiction. I like science-fiction.”

“Oh?”

“I find it interesting.”

Martin smiled. If only Jon knew. “Nothing wrong with that," he said. "It just seems very...well it seems very _you_ , I s’pose.”

“Right.” They wandered a few paces. “So um...what about yourself? What do you like to do?”

“Mostly write poetry, actually.”

Jon cocked an eyebrow and pursed his lips, as if there were something inherently wrong with that.

“Don’t give me that look, Jon.”

“Sorry.”

“‘S fine. Just teasing.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not very good at it, really, but I do try. Just feels nice to get emotions out somewhere, even if I’m the only one who ever sees it.”

Jon twisted at the glove on his hand. “I uh...I read some.”

“Were they in the bin?”

“...Yes.”

“And?”

Jon sighed. “Poetry’s not my thing.”

“Fair enough.”

“A-anything else?”

Well he couldn’t exactly admit that he enjoyed people-watching, because that might creep him out or make him ask more questions, and considering Martin had been doing that for centuries, it might get very awkward very fast. He liked reading, but that didn’t feel very interesting. He enjoyed drinking games with the crew, but that didn’t seem like a good thing to mention. “I was in a band for a bit,” he blurted.

Oh. Oh that was very stupid of him to say.

“A band?” Jon asked, curiosity lighting his face. “Always wanted to start one myself, actually. Back in uni, anyway. What ah...what do you play?”

Martin chuckled. Now time to walk a very thin line between reality and falsehood. Why couldn’t he have kept his damn mouth shut? “I never actually played anything, although I tried picking up the flute for awhile,” he admitted. “I was really just the sound guy for a bit.”

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to look so disappointed.”

Jon pouted. “I’m not!”

“You so are.”

He rolled his eyes. “So what’s the name of it.”

“The band?”

“Obviously.”

“Roll your eyes again and they might fall out of your head,” Martin snickered.

“What an interesting title,” Jon replied, voice flat.

Martin blinked. “Was...was that a _joke_!?”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. “Obviously, it was a joke.”

“Note to self, Jon has a terrible sense of humour, but at least he can do deadpan,” Martin teased. “The band’s called the Mechanisms.”

“Hm. Never heard of it. What’s the genre?”

He had to laugh. “Honestly, that’s a good question.”

“You don’t know?”

“It...varies? It's mostly steampunk-type stuff, but...not always?”

A light smile played on Jon’s lips. “That doesn’t seem like something you’d enjoy at all.”

“It grew on me.” _After literal centuries of being stuck with those idiots._ “Maybe I’ll play you some of it sometime.”

“I think I might like that,” Jon mused. “Anyway, we should probably head back to work.”

Martin sighed. “Yeah, guess so.” He looked at Jon. “This was nice.”

Jon returned his smile. “Yes. Yes it was.”

“You know Tim won’t shut up about it, right?”

“Don’t make me think about that.”

“Sure thing, boss,” he teased.

Jon shot him a humoured glare, still smiling.

When they made it back to the Institute, Tim looked up in shock at them entering the Archives at the same time. Sasha smirked, but said nothing.

“Just where’ve you two been?” Tim asked, a knowing grin on his face.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Get back to work,” he snapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And they were **friends**! :o_
> 
> Don't forget to follow me on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com)!


	9. Sirens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: bit of alcohol, but nothing too major; body horror
> 
> Edit: oh boy it sure would be great if I warned y'all about the Bifrost, huh?

Colours. That’s all there were anymore. Just...colours.

Everyone else was dead. Their corpses lay fallen on the floor or fused to the metal that lined the corridors or burned by the fires of the cosmos. Martin watched the swirling masses that made up all of space and time, knowing that he had finally been left behind.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been expecting it; it was only a matter of time. He wasn’t like the other Mechanisms. He was young, and he barely understood the depths of his own immortality. He still did not know when or how he would die, but he was certain that he would know very soon.

He slumped into his seat. The final messages of the doomed and damned still rang in his ears, joined by the hollow, begging, _pleading_ of his own voice. “ _Can anyone hear us?_ ”

Tears dripped from his eyes, but they weren’t tears anymore. Pure molten metal burned down the sides of his face and sizzled on the floor where they landed. He didn’t care. These things...maybe they could kill him? Make it all end?

But there were still...so many things that he wanted to do. He wanted...he wanted to tell his mother that he loved her, just one last time, even if she didn’t care. He wanted to hold his crewmates on the bad days and be held in return. He wanted to fall in love, and be loved.

But now he was just...lost. Trapped by the unknown and squamous things that oozed and clawed through space and time and everything in between.

All he could do was watch the windows and pray that it would be over soon.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited. Creatures with too many eyes and too many limbs and too much mass stared at him, but made no move to crush the small station he still sat in. They couldn’t kill him, and he couldn’t stop them.

Another sob ripped from his throat, and he reached up one of his arms to swipe away the liquid that fell from his eyes. How many arms did he have? Wasn’t he only supposed to have two? He tried to count, but sense made no sense and trying to make sense of the nonsense did nothing for him. Eyes coated him from head to toe. Had he always been this way? Or was this what the Outer Gods did? Was it their gift? Their curse?

Martin shook his head. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He would be dead someday. Perhaps—hopefully—soon.

Heh. Martin. Was that his name? And what was a name, really?

More silver liquid fell from his eyes, and another sob choked him. What was he doing? Crying? Why was he crying? What did crying mean? Who was he? Where was he? What was he doing here?

“I want to go home,” all of his mouths whimpered. But he didn’t know what a home was, and he didn’t know where it would be even if he did.

A sound clanged through the station. It was a station, right? A space station? But what did that mean? Remembering was...so hard.

“Martin!” someone screamed. Another person? Or was it just him?

The sound came again. Someone swore. Then there was a loud _bang_ , and the door slid open. Or did it fade? Melt?

Hands were grabbing his face, and they did not belong to him. “Martin!” the voice cried again. Lightning-rimmed eyes stared at him, into his face that was no longer his face. He knew this person. Was this a person? Yes. And he knew them.

“J-Jonny?” he sniffed, though he no longer had a nose. What was that, anyway—a nose?

“Shit. Tim, help me get him out of here!”

Rough hands grabbed him, and he wanted to hide. But there was nothing he could do. Two people lugged him out of his station (was it a station?) and onto a new one. It felt familiar, and it thrummed with energy.

“Marius!” Jonny shouted. “Where the hell are you!?”

“Right here!” a man called. “Guess he’s not- ohhhhhhh…”

Some of Martin’s eyes focused on the newcomer. He was a bit taller than the other two. Maybe. It was hard to tell. But he felt...familiar. Safe. One of his arms reached out, and the man clasped it. “Don’t worry, Martin,” he said softly. “It’ll be okay.”

Jonny dropped the half of Martin he was supporting into Marius’s arms before leaning over to the intercom device. “Brian, get us out of here.”

Something deep in the ship shifted, and the energy hummed. Tim and Marius half-carried, half-dragged him to some other room. Martin wanted to speak. He wanted to say something. He couldn’t remember how.

Marius poked him with several devices, then started hacking away at the new limbs. Vaguely, Martin was sure he should feel it, but he didn’t. Why didn’t it hurt? Shouldn’t it? Weren’t these pieces of himself? His eyes started blinking out one-by-one, and it took him a moment to realise that it was Tim’s doing. Why was he doing that? Was there something wrong with them?

He didn’t know. He knew nothing. Probably. He was pretty sure he knew nothing, but he wasn’t even really all that sure what ‘nothing’ was. He was tired, though. He wanted to rest, if rest was even a thing that was possible or had ever existed. What was rest, again? He didn’t know. He knew nothing, after all.

* * *

Sweat soaked his sheets when he awoke. His body shuddered in waves, and his heart beat like a drumroll. His vision swirled with rainbow mosaic, and he still felt it—the touch and gaze of those... _things_.

The clock on his dresser told him it was three in the morning. He groaned and ran a hand down his face. If he didn’t have to work that day, he would gladly knock himself out with alcohol or something stronger. But his coworkers would start asking questions that he _really_ didn’t want to answer.

“S’pose I could just head to work really early,” he grumbled, but frankly he didn’t like that idea either. The place may have been better than Yggdrasil, but only just. He wished...he wished he had someone to talk to. Someone to release all the horrors of his mind to. Of his past.

He pinched himself. “No one would believe you.”

There was probably only one person on the entire planet that _would_ believe him, and...Martin couldn’t do that to him. Jon had enough problems; to add to them cosmic horror and dread would just be cruel.

But he did wish.

Sighing, he pulled himself from his sheets. The least he could do was take a shower and rinse off the sweat. He would need to get his other blankets out, too. Washing the dirty ones could be put off for a while.

He undressed and stepped into the warm stream of water from the shower. Tendrils of steam rose up and clouded the walls. Martin shivered.

His body wore no scars. Even the changes wrought on him by Carmilla were only internal, and any scars that he’d acquired in his youth had faded away over the centuries. How old was he? He didn’t know anymore. He’d probably need to consult Aurora’s databanks for that. Or maybe Ivy.

It didn’t matter anyway, did it? Time was...irrelevant. It’d still been several decades following Yggdrasil before he’d finally chosen to return home. And even now, in the comforting quiet of his flat, he knew that home was not a place that existed anymore.

He shut off the shower and stepped out.

* * *

“You look awful,” Tim observed, tossing a file onto the stack.

“Mhm,” Martin replied, barely even acknowledging that anything was said in the first place.

“What did Jon say to you?”

“Wha?”

Tim rolled his eyes, his lips turned up into a tight grimace. “You went with him again for lunch yesterday, right?”

Martin scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “Y-yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“We just...talked,” Martin sighed. “This is...this has nothing to do with that.”

Sasha finally looked up from her desk. “Wanna vent?”

Martin tried to ignore the almost _hungry_ look in her eyes. “Just a nightmare, was all,” he said.

“Worms?” Tim asked, his voice a bit softer now.

Martin shuddered, wishing that was all it’d been. “S-something like that.”

“Fine then. Keep your secrets.”

Before Jon lost himself to his paranoia, that would’ve just been a joke. Martin really wished it still were.

Someone cleared their throat, and Martin looked up to see Jon standing there with his arms hugging his sides and looking like he’d really rather be anywhere but standing in front of his assistants. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked timidly.

Tim’s face soured. “Oh no,” he growled, “not at all, boss. Feel free to keep watching.”

“I- nevermind. Martin, I need to borrow you.”

What could he possibly need Martin for? They weren’t planning on lunch, so it couldn’t be that. Plus, it was much too early for that, anyway. “O-okay,” he said, pulling himself out of his chair.

He followed Jon into his office, trying his best not to drag his tired feet.

“Shut the door, please,” Jon said, rounding the corner of his desk. For once, he didn’t have his tape recorder running.

“Right.”

With the door closed, Jon seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped, and he looked on the verge of passing out. Martin perked up, ready to catch him if he collapsed.

“A-are you okay?” he asked.

Jon snorted. “I really look that bad?”

“Yeah, you look awful. You...you’re not sick, are you?”

He started to approach, but Jon waved him away. “No, no, I’m just...I’m tired, is all.”

“No kidding.”

“I just…,” he shook his head. “You saw that Melanie King came back in earlier, right?”

That was...odd. “Yeah. Sasha, brought her down, right?”

“Y-yes.” Jon fidgeted with his collar, his sleeves, his hair. “Have you noticed anything strange about Sasha, lately?”

Martin blinked, the words on his tongue before he had a moment to question why the hell he was being asked this. “Not really? She’s just...Sasha.”

“That’s what I thought, too…”

Martin let out a long sigh. “Look, I can’t make you trust me, o-or anyone else, but we’re not killers.”

“I-it’s not...Melanie mentioned something odd about Sasha, and I just...wanted to know—”

“I’m not going to spy on her for you.”

Jon rubbed his face. “I-I know. It’s just...I don’t know…”

“All right, y’know what?” Martin said. “End of the day comes, you and I are going for drinks. You need it bad.”

“Martin, that’s not—”

“Don’t care. You’re exhausted all the time, and you have _got_ to unwind before you give yourself a heart attack or something.”

Jon slumped, then let out a soft chuckle. “Seems I don’t have a choice.”

“No. No you don’t.”

He sighed all loud and dramatic, but there was a fondness hidden in there, it seemed. “Fine. All right. Just knock when you...when you’re ready.”

“‘Course,” Martin smiled.

“And um...if you- if you notice anything...well, _odd_ about Sasha...or Tim, I suppose...you’ll tell me, right?”

Martin’s smile fell, and he let out a sigh of his own. “Yes, I’ll tell you. But I’m not going to _look_ for it.”

“Right...right, of course. I um...I don’t expect you to.”

“See you this evening, then?”

“Yes.”

And with that, Martin turned and walked out.

_I just invited Jon to drinks. Shit._

He’d told Jon before that he _didn’t_ drink. And now, well. Shit. This was going to be awkward.

“What’d he want?” Tim sneered.

“Couldn’t reach something on the top shelf,” Martin shrugged, letting the lie roll out of him like rainfall.

“Sure he didn’t just want to spy on you?”

“For once? Yeah.”

“At least you can drag him out of here every now and again,” Sasha piped in. “He seems to at least trust you a little bit, these days.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, eyes narrowing. “Why is that, anyway?”

Martin gulped. This was...not the conversation he wanted to be having. But it wasn’t like he could back out now. “I just...convinced him that I didn’t kill her,” he mumbled, settling back into his seat.

Tim’s gaze didn’t waver. “How?”

“I-I—” he took a breath, glancing at Sasha who probably already knew anyways “—I told him about my CV. He convinced himself I was lying about something, and...I told him.”

“Well at least he’s starting to trust _someone_ around here,” Sasha smiled, patting his hand that lay exposed on the desk.

Her hand felt...wrong—like plastic or maybe wood rather than skin. He ignored it. He was just imagining things. “Yeah,” he replied, pulling his hand away a bit.

Tim watched him for a moment. “You’ve still got that crush on him, don’t you?” he accused.

Martin forced his shoulders to relax. “Can’t help it.”

“You have a terrible taste in men.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

As if that was supposed to be something that surprised him. He’d known that long before even Carmilla got her hands on him. Back in primary, he’d been attracted to the school bully, which had done absolutely nothing to help his self-esteem. Then, of course, there’d been his brief fling with Marius, which had been...ill-advised. Sure, they were friends _now_ , but those first few decades after Martin had decided he wasn’t into him like that had been...tense. And had involved a few too many ‘accidents’ involving a gun.

Hereward had been a decent distraction for a bit, but he’d technically _owned_ Martin in a weird sort of way? Considering he’d been forced into servanthood and bought by the man’s family while the rest of the crew was roaming about doing whatever they felt like doing.

And Hereward had been...not great. 

It wasn’t always bad, but Hereward had been into a lot of things that Martin just...never found interesting. And then there was the exile and the rebellion and all the frustrating things that had followed. Like that half-baked wedding he’d never agreed to. He’d sure as hell never _loved_ the man, but at least he’d had _someone_?

As for his thing for Jon, well, it would fade eventually, just like everything else had. Besides, he was immortal, and Jon was not. That small, pleading voice in the back of his head couldn’t save anyone from the clutches of mortality, and even if it could, he wouldn’t let it. No one deserved that kind of hell, especially if they were already experiencing one in their day-to-day.

He shuffled around with the reports on his desk and tried very hard to not look too closely at the clock.

* * *

“I didn’t think you drank?”

There it was. They were standing just outside of the pub. It was dark out, and the cold February air sent chills up his back. Jon shivered next to him. “Normally I don’t,” Martin sighed. “But honestly? I think I could use it.”

Jon glanced at him. “Any reason why?”

Martin cleared his throat. “Bad genes.” Technically true—his father, he was pretty sure, had been a bit of a drunk. And he knew for certain that his mother was in her younger days, even when he was a child.

“Ah...maybe this is a bad idea, then?”

“It’ll be fine,” he smiled, hoping he was right about that. “Just don’t let me get _too_ shitfaced.”

A smile of his own played on Jon’s lips. “Right, then.”

Martin pushed the door open and held it for Jon. The interior was warm, cosy, even. There were only a few people inside—some couples, and what looked like a poker game between some older fellows. Jon sat down at the bar, seeming much more comfortable than Martin would have expected. He squinted at the menu behind the counter.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Martin glanced at the menu. “I’ll just get something light, I think. You get whatever. My treat.”

“Martin, you’re not going to pay for m—”

“I asked _you_ to drinks. I’m paying.”

Jon scoffed. “Fine.” He called over to the bartender and ordered something that Martin knew for a fact was...pretty strong. He had not pictured Jon as a scotch person. Martin just got a light beer.

Jon was already a shot and three beers in by the time Martin finished his beer, and he was acting a bit more dramatic than usual. Also talking. _Lots_ of talking.

“—so they would find the buttons and whoever was in charge would sell, but if you even dared to _look_ at a button wrong, they would throw you out without a second thought!”

Martin couldn’t hide the fond smile as he sat there and watched Jon get increasingly more agitated about dustyard workers in the Victorian era.

“Which is just _absolutely_ ridiculous! Like, they were worth maybe a pence or two if you found a good one, so why _shouldn’t_ they get to keep it and sell it themselves!? They had absolutely _no reason_ to share it with others!”

He paused to ask for another refill, and Martin glanced at the bartender. She just shrugged and handed him the glass. “Top me off, too, if you don’t mind, but please cut him off,” he giggled.

She winked at him and went to fill a glass for him.

Jon rubbed his forehead. “Sorry, sorry,” he slurred, downing his now fourth beer. “I’m prob’ly boring you.”

“No!” Martin exclaimed, perhaps a bit louder than he’d intended. A few of the patrons glanced his way, but didn’t say anything. “That is, no, Jon, I’m very much enjoying myself. It’s nice to see you loosen up.”

“Mm...thanks. Georgie ‘sually got’ired of me aft’ra bit.”

“I think maybe you should stop drinking, though.”

“Prob’ly…”

Martin smirked. “Lightweight,” he muttered, taking a deep swig of his drink.

“‘S what ‘v’ryone else always said,” Jon whined.

“Well I, for one, am teasing you,” Martin said with a laugh. “Four beers and a shot for someone your size is actually a bit worrying.”

Jon hummed, twirling a lock of his hair with one finger. “Maybe…”

Martin finished the rest of his drink quickly and paid the tab. “Let’s get you home,” he told Jon quietly.

“Mm’kay.”

He led him off the barstool and out into the winter air. Unsurprisingly, this did absolutely nothing to sober Jon in the least. He clung to Martin’s arm and stumbled along.

Martin, on the other hand, was rather pleasantly buzzed. He hadn’t realised how desperately he’d needed this. It felt... _really_ good to unwind and just be _normal_ for once.

He glanced at Jon, and couldn’t help but grin at the goofy smile he had going. “You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” he teased.

Jon groaned and looked up at him with what Martin could only describe as puppy-dog eyes. “‘I’ll be fine.”

“If I see you at work tomorrow, I’ll shout.”

“‘S rude.”

“Maybe, but you’re also completely plastered and probably won’t even remember me walking you home.”

Jon leaned his head on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin just about froze at the feeling. “Thank you,” Jon whispered. “Needed this.”

“I hope it helped.”

He shifted his head so he could look at Martin with those dark, bottomless eyes of his. “Being near you always helps.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to stumble, and he landed right on his face, too. Jon slurred out a panicked “Sorry!”, but Martin was too busy being in shock to notice. Jonathan Sims? Admitting that being near Martin was something good? He never would’ve imagined that one. Sure, Jon was drunk, but…

His mind raced as he stumbled back to his feet and caught Jon before he could get a taste of the pavement as well. They were just a block away from Jon’s, now. Martin could have his little gay panic later, when he was alone.

But Jon’s little smile was...truly magical. And the way he nuzzled Martin’s side so that he could get Martin’s arm to drape around him was equally wonderful. It was doing things with his heart that he hadn’t known were even possible.

_Is this love?_

He shook the thought away and scolded himself. Jon was his superior, for one, and he was also mortal. Plus, he was awful at caring about himself, he was a complete arse, and he had some _serious_ trust issues.

Oh, but he was also adorable.

_Shit. I’m in love._

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Maybe...maybe it was just the alcohol in his system that was making him feel all light and flustery. Yeah, that had to be it.

“You’re so warm,” Jon breathed, pressing further into him. “Soft.”

Martin’s resolve shattered. Quite frankly, when Jon let himself be a normal human being instead of a raging paranoid mess, he was...lovely.

They stopped outside of the building, and Martin started to unwind his arm from around Jon, but not before pressing a soft kiss into his hair. Jon probably wouldn’t remember any of this, and even if he did, he’d probably chalk it up to his imagination or just assume that they were both being drunk idiots.

Jon kept ahold of Martin’s hand. “Come in?” he asked.

Martin shook his head, though his heart screamed at him to follow. “Not this time, Jon. If you were a bit more sober, maybe, but…” He took a shaky breath. “It’s probably best if I go home, too.”

Jon pouted. “Right...right,” he mumbled.

He fought the urge to reach up and caress Jon’s cheek, then remembered that Jon was probably drunk enough to not care. He slowly reached up, swept a piece of soft, dark hair from Jon’s face and pressed his palm into the man’s cheek. “It’s all right,” he said a little breathlessly. “I’ll see you in a few days, okay?”

Jon leaned into the touch. “Right.”

He wanted to stay that way forever. Or maybe better yet, gather Jon into his arms and card his fingers through the man’s soft hair and whisper reassurances in his ear. But he couldn’t make himself do it, so instead he forced himself to let go. It wasn’t like...like he was missing his shot, or anything. Jon was drunk; he couldn’t possibly be _really_ interested. Besides, it wasn't like this was the last time he was going to see him or something. He took a steadying breath, and tried not to stare too intently into Jon’s eyes. “If you try to come in on the hangover you’re gonna have, I _will_ kick you back out.”

“...Right”

Dammit, he didn’t have to sound so disappointed. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Jon didn’t say anything, and Martin turned to walk away. But a hand caught his, and he looked back.

Arms wrapped around his neck, and cracked, fevered lips smashed into his own. Martin stumbled back, grasping onto Jon on pure instinct while he mind tried to catch up with the fact that _Jon was kissing him_.

And then he let go, waved goodbye, and stumbled into the building.

Martin stood there dumbfounded. Processing. Had that really just happened? No, there was _absolutely no way_. But the phantom touch lingered just as sloppy and wet as it had been. He couldn’t quite convince himself that he’d imagined that. Mostly because any time he dreamed up something romantic, it wasn’t usually so...sudden.

He wandered down the road in a daze, a smile forming on his lips. Jon kissed him. Maybe he had a shot after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a bit OOC? Yeah. Yeah it is. But also, they deserve to have a good time, and also affectionate drunk Jon is a wonderful headcanon. That, and also we're headed into the s2 finale next chapter ;D  
> Fun fact: I have never been to a bar/pub. I don't know how this stuff works, so I'm guessing based on movies/shows. Also the dustyard conversation was based on a real conversation I had with a lovely friend who fell a bit too deep into a rabbit hole and accidentally hyperfixated for a few days.
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Follow me over on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com)!


	10. Red Signal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **BWAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOO...BWAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOO...BWAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOO(y'ai 'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth h'ee-l'geb f'ai throdog uaaah...)**  
>  _
> 
> We do be out here loving this track, and do you know what the reddest signal of the s2 finale was? >:3
> 
> CW: murder, gore, blood, body horror (Not!Sasha), mentions of possible suicide, Michael being Michael and distorting the senses

_I’m worried about you_ , Martin wanted to say as Tim dragged him out of Jon’s office. _I love you, and you’re worrying me_.

But he couldn’t say that. Jon didn’t even remember the latter half of that night. At least, that’s what he’d said. And now...now he was saying that he was...sorry. For everything.

_Please don’t do anything. Please be okay._

Martin had given up protesting and trying to wrench from Tim’s iron grasp. It wasn’t going to work unless he physically broke something, and he really didn’t want to deal with the backlash of _that_. But when Tim headed away from the stairs and toward the storage room, a touch of hope glimmered in Martin’s chest.

“You’ve still got a tape recorder stashed in here, right?” Tim asked.

“Y-yeah.”

“Good.” Tim flicked on the light. “Where?”

“Well if you’d give me my arm back, I’ll grab it.”

He let go, and Martin tried to ignore the red marks and crescent indentations that trickled blood stark on his pale skin. Instead, he leaned back behind one of the filing cabinets and pulled out the recorder. Tim stuffed a tape into the machine and set it rolling, then started to head back toward Jon’s office. His face was grim and hard.

“You’re sure about this?” Martin asked. Whatever Jon was about to do, he didn’t trust that it would be safe. It’d be easier if he left Martin to deal with it. “He did tell us to go home…”

“Yeah, and then he said, ‘Sorry for everything’,” Tim snapped. “Something’s up.”

Martin gulped. “You don’t think he’s going to…y’know…?” He did his best pantomime of a noose.

Tim glared at him. “I don’t know. But he’s going to do something, and it’s going to be bad. And I don’t mean like ‘sneaking a cigarette’ bad. Like- properly bad.”

“So we need to help him?” He knew that. Of course he did. Why couldn’t Tim just agree to run off so Martin could handle it?

“We need to _stop_ him.”

“And…we needed my tape recorder because…?” The last thing he needed was to be exposed by a damn _tape recorder_ catching some awkward confession or something.

“Because something tells me we’re going to need evidence by the end of today,” Tim replied, stopping his stride so quickly that Martin almost ran into him. “I don’t want to wind up in court without something to back me up.”

“Court?”

He smirked. “Yeah. Ehh- tribunal if we’re lucky, inquest if we’re not.”

He did _not_ need a court to find out about him. Whatever was about to happen, he was going to have to be as cautious as possible. That settled a painful stone in his gut. “You did use a new tape, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I took one off the pile.”

Not all of those had been blank. He’d had a _system_ dammit! If Tim had just erased his poems, there would be hell to pay. “Was it blank or…” No answer. “Tim?

“It was blank,” Tim said, looking anywhere but at Martin. Martin rolled his eyes.

_Whatever. It wasn’t like I wouldn’t lose them eventually, anyway._

They started toward the office again, with Martin hurrying behind Tim’s fast pace. “He’s never going to speak to us again,” he murmured. _He’ll never love me. He’ll never kiss me like that again. I’m going to be alone forever._

Tim scoffed. “Don’t get my hopes up.”

Martin ignored him and opened the door to Jon’s office. “Jon?” he called.

“Aaaaaand he’s gone,” Tim sneered. “Thought so.”

Martin shuddered. Suddenly Jon doing something drastic to himself didn’t seem too out of the question. “You don’t think he’s going to…?”

“I don’t know, Martin!” Tim shouted. “I think he’s going fully off the deep end, is what I think. If he hasn’t already.” He pulled the door shut, his movements jerky and frustrated.

 _I don’t want to lose him, even if we’re not together. I don’t want to lose him._ But putting himself in harm's way wasn’t exactly...out-of-character, if Martin was being completely honest with himself. _Please be safe. Don’t hurt yourself. Please, Jon. I can’t lose you now._

Tim was getting ahead, speed-walking toward the exit. Martin scurried up behind him. “Look, I know you don’t like him—”

“Got that, did you?”

“—but I’m not going to help you get him fired.”

“Martin!” Tim cried in exasperation, stopping again. “What do you think is happening here!? This isn’t office politics! It’s not like he’s had one too many at the Christmas party and started ranting about the Greeks. Whatever is happening here it’s literally supernatural.”

“Really?” God, he sounded like Jon before the paranoia hit. But maybe it would avert Tim? “Isn’t that a little…y’know?”

“No, it isn’t ‘a little y’know’. There is something in this place, and it’s messing up our heads!” He put his face into his hands. “It watches us all the time. It stops me quitting. I’m pretty sure it would stop Elias firing Jon even if he decided to try actually running the place for once.”

Martin gulped. “You’re sure you don’t just want to stay?”

“I’m sure.”

“But, like, deep down—?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Right then. So Tim wanted to quit. That wasn’t anything new. He’d talked about it for awhile already. And Martin had already determined that there was something keeping him here after the whole worm attack thing. Maybe they were _all_ trapped. Even Jon. Did Jon know? Was that why…?

He shook his head. Jon was _not_ going to kill himself. Martin _knew_ that. He might do something stupid that would _result_ in his death, but he wasn’t going to do it to himself.

He hoped.

God, he _really_ hoped.

“So you really think the Institute is, what, haunted?” Martin asked, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.

“I used to,” Tim replied, rounding up the stairs and opening the door to the backrooms of the Institute. “Now I think it’s worse.”

 _Y'ai 'ng'ngah, Yog-Sothoth h'ee-l'geb f'ai throdog uaaah…_ Martin shivered. “Worse how?”

And then, as if answering a call, the crash of something large and heavy followed his words. And then came its haunting voice, distorted and heavy and sing-song and _wrong_. “Jooooon!”

“Oh God!” Tim cried, his gaze darting and fearful, searching for the source of that horrible call. “What the hell was that!?”

 _Ogthrod ai'f geb'l-ee'h Yog-Sothoth 'ngah'ng ai'y zhro!_ Martin’s entire body quivered like an earthquake. He’d been trapped in that hellish realm of not-quites and false-reals for so long...had it followed him home? Had he brought the Outer Gods here to plague the people he cared about? “Oh no,” he whispered. “Nonononono—”

The monster appeared around the corner, and Martin gasped. Tim took several steps back toward the staircase, eyes blown wide with fear. The creature spotted them, its distorted lips twisting up into a sick grin. Its too-many legs and too-many arms and too-long body scuttled toward them, hunger in its eyes.

Panic froze Martin in place. He held the creature’s stare and though he wanted to run and hide and maybe cry in a corner somewhere for all that would help him, he could not.

_Why does it look like Sasha?_

Tim grabbed his hand, his fluttering fingers taking hold and dragging him away, back down the stairs, away, _away_ from that awful being. Its hot, sick breath choked Martin’s lungs as it followed.

_We’re going to die we’re going to die we’re going to die—_

No...no that wasn’t right. _Tim_ would die. Martin would be torn, but he would survive as he always did. Even still…

Tim pulled him into the maze of shelves and files and _boxes_. Why were there so many _boxes_? Why was there a monster giving chase that looked like Sasha but wasn’t Sasha and where was Jon and—

The trapdoor swung open, and the Archives fell silent.

It took a minute for either to regain their breath. Then they stood there and stared at each other, unwilling to admit or acknowledge the thing they had just seen.

Finally, it was Tim who spoke. “What the hell was that?”

Martin swiped at the tears escaping his eyes, still panting from the terror. “It- er- it looked- it kinda looked—”

“Oh don’t say it.”

“It did, though, didn’t it?” Martin whimpered, his voice reaching a higher octave than he thought was possible.

Tim buried his face in his hands. “That wasn’t Sasha.”

Tim was scared. Martin was scared, too but that...that didn’t matter. Tim needed comfort. Martin was the only one who could help. He squeezed his hand. “No,” he said breathlessly, hoping he sounded convincing but knowing that it fell flat. “No, no, it wasn’t.”

He knew it was Sasha. A warped, distorted, _monstrous_ version of her, but Sasha nonetheless. What else could it possibly have been? Unless maybe some creature had gotten ahold of her, torn her skin from her bones, and worn it stretched and peeled back over its own flesh. He gulped. “You don’t… you don’t think—”

“He told her to go home,” Tim said, suppressing a shudder. “Like us!”

“Yeah.” She was dead, and there was nothing he could do.

“And she did.”

“Yeah.” His friend was dead, and now that _thing_ was chasing after Jon. Jon, whom he’d fallen in love with. Jon, who had no one and nothing.

Jon, who needed his help.

He glanced around the corner and peered into the open door to Jon’s office. “It went into the tunnels,” he said.

Tim gripped his hand and tugged him back. “Nope. No. Not happening.”

“We can’t just leave him.” _I can’t leave him. I won’t let that thing kill him. I_ can’t _!_

“Yeah, we can,” Tim said, hysteria creeping into his voice.

Martin pulled his hand away. “I’m going.” _I won’t let him die. I won’t lose him now. He needs help, and I’m going to help him. Not like it’ll kill me._

“Martin!” Tim called after. He could hear the desperation in his voice, but Tim didn’t have to follow. Tim _shouldn’t_ follow. Although...maybe having someone else down there would help? No...no he’d probably just get Tim killed, really.

He pulled the trapdoor closed behind him. He should really just tell Tim to stay put, but he wasn’t really sure if he could trust himself to not start sobbing with terror if he tried to speak. Tim’s voice wafted through the wood, but Martin dragged himself away.

_I’ll save Jon. I have to save Jon._

* * *

In the end, they didn’t even _find_ Jon. Instead, all they found was...well... _Michael_ , whatever Michael was supposed to be.

Tim had eventually given up on trying to speak to him; Martin was too enraptured by the twisting colours and undulating hues and pointless, endless corridors full of mirrors and fear.

He could still feel the touch of eldritch that Yog-Sothoth had imprinted on his mind, and its oily black tendrils caressed his mind with the desire to accept his deadened fate—to lie down and embrace the calling that he’d been pulled toward so long ago. There was no question in his mind that following in Odin’s footsteps would bring about the end of his world and everything he had ever cared about, though, so he continued onward, praying that he and Tim could find their way out.

Occasionally they came across someone else: a woman who fled the moment she caught sight of them. At some point, Martin may have recognised her, but he did not know, and he could not help her.

They kept moving.

The tape recorder had given up on them a long time ago. Tim’s phone only showed another spirally mess of colour on the screen in place of the time. How long had they been in this place? Days? Weeks? A thousand years? It felt like such a long time since he’d last seen the sun. Or Jon.

Was Jon okay? Or had that creature that looked like Sasha but was not Sasha gotten to him? Killed him? Was he somewhere down in the tunnels beneath the Institute, caught up in a pool of his own drying blood with wide, terrified eyes staring at nothing?

...Michael had appeared to them a few times. Probably just to scare them rather than end their lives. Still, Martin could feel the terror seeping through his every pore anytime he caught sight of the twisted form.

Tim had stopped moving, and sat on what passed as a floor to clutch what Martin was pretty sure was his head. It was so hard to think in this place. So hard to remember what life was like before the fear and dread sucked out everything else. He remembered crying for a while, with Tim’s arms wrapping around him and holding him tightly.

Their own haggard expressions stared out at them from every direction. Which reflection was truly them? Did they even exist? Had this always been the only thing that ever was? Or was it never?

After an uncountable amount of time, Martin surfaced to a breath of near-lucidity just long enough to focus on his mates. The crew of the Aurora—his friends. They wouldn’t leave him here all alone with only Tim as his company. They would come for him.

They would come for him.

He had friends who cared about him in their own bizarre ways.

He had people he cared about who may still be in danger. Who may be lost and afraid.

He had to find them.

Abruptly, he got to his feet and dragged Tim with him. He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t know if he was going anywhere at all. But he was going. He would find the way out. He still had to save Jon. Save Sasha (if there was anything left to save).

They wandered through the endless halls, following Martin’s pointless endeavours to escape. It was like trying to follow a scent that wasn’t quite there. He...he _knew_ there was a way out, but he couldn’t find it. Every turn he made, he was more and more uncertain that it was the way to go.

Eventually, he lost whatever trail he thought he’d been following and looked to Tim. Tim had remained silent, but there was a spark of something defiant in his eyes. He took the lead. Martin tried to hold onto the songs he’d learned over years among the stars. They helped a little, in their own way. A reminder of the world beyond the hallways.

Tim picked up speed, slowly at first, right up until they were running through twisting passageways and corridors with no rhyme or reason to the turns they took. They passed the lost woman once or twice, and Michael’s laugh rang through their ears, but they kept running.

And then they stopped.

There was a door. Just a singular, weathered-out yellow door. The walls had closed up behind them, and they stood in a small room, and there was the door. Tim didn’t hesitate, and kicked through.

Air dripped into Martin’s lungs, and he gasped. He dropped to the floor—the floor that was a floor and had always been a floor. His muscles shivered, and he knew from the wobble and shake of every fibre of his being that they had been running for hours. Maybe days. A long time.

Tim dropped next to him, panting.

Martin stared at his hands pressing into the plush carpet of the Institute lobby. It...it _was_ the Institute, right? This was here? Or was it all just another very elaborate trick? Was it bad that he really just wanted to curl up into a ball and cry for a bit?

Tim fiddled with the tape recorder, muttering to himself. Martin looked up at him. “What...what are you doing?” he asked, his dry throat cracking.

“Trying to get this to turn on,” Tim replied, dark eyes focused and squinting at the buttons. He pressed down on the Record button, and the tape clicked and began to whir. “I think it’s working again.”

Martin took a shaking breath. That thing hadn’t worked almost the entire time they were in those hallways. Was this real after all? “Tim?” he asked, trying not to let the hope creep into his voice too much. “Where are we?”

Turning the recorder over, Tim ignored him. “…Yeah. Yeah it’s recording.”

“Forget the bloody tapes, Tim!” Martin cried, surprised at his own distress. After all, he should be used to all the spooky bullshit by now, and it wasn’t like he could be killed by any of this stuff. “Are we sure this is…this is here?”

“Yes,” Tim said through gritted teeth. “Because the tape works now.”

He pulled himself and headed toward the door down to the Archives. Martin just wanted to try and make sense of the whole situation and experience, but Tim was being rather curt with his responses.

Martin just hoped Jon was okay. But when he opened the door to Jon’s office, that hope quickly disintegrated to the tune of dripping blood. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh no.”

He took in a careful breath, the smell of copper spiralling into his lungs. The scene was...gruesome. A bloodied pipe lay on the floor, and the slumped form of what had once been a man draped over the desk. His head had been beaten so badly that his brains leaked from the cracked and fractured bone of his skull. 

“I told you he was going to do something like this,” Tim said, voice dark and grave.

Would he? Would Jon really? “Oh, no, no,” he whispered again, ignoring the tears that dripped on his cheeks. He didn’t have a clue who this man was, but Jon surely wouldn’t just...he wasn’t a _killer_! Jon would _never_ , right!? But all there was was grey hair, white bone, and red, red, red…

“…Who is it?” he asked tentatively, more to himself than to Tim.

“I told you,” Tim repeated, stepping further into the room to investigate.

“Oh Jon,” Martin gulped, pulling out his phone to dial 999. “What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you enjoyed this lovely conclusion to the s2 shenaniganery! I've had an absolute blast writing this story, and I've got lots more stuff lined up for s3 and 4. Not sure how I'm going to cover s5 just yet, but we shall see.
> 
> That being said, **I'm going to take 2 weeks off, so the next chapter will actually be posted on 2 September.** School's starting back up next week, and I need a bit of time to get back into the rhythm of things. Plus, I've only just started writing chapter 14, and could use a bit of time to rebuild my buffer (the next few chapters are much longer than usual; so many things to have happen!)
> 
> Please understand that I need this time to prep for year 3 of uni and the insanities that are coming along with it.
> 
> I'll still be active on


	11. Strange Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back! Life's crazy rn and I didn't work on this fic at all during my little hiatus, but hopefully I can get back into it before I completely catch up with my backlog.  
> Anyway, who's ready for S5 Part 2 to start tomorrow? I am very much happy to hear from our girl Daisy again, but yikes it's gonna be rough, isn't it?
> 
> Welp! Enjoy today's chapter! It's pretty long, so I'll probably wait until the week after next to post the next one so I have more time to catch up. But hey! Let's dive into S3, shall we?
> 
> CW: burns, graphic descriptions of injury, accidental compulsion

_Martin,_

_I’m sorry. There’s a lot going on that I can’t explain, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

_I’m going to be gone for awhile. I don’t know for how long. I’m all right, though. Don’t try to look for me. Please. I don’t want you to get hurt._

_Be safe._

_Jon_

Martin had already read the small note many times, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. “‘All right’ my arse,” he muttered, rifling around in his bedside table drawer. “You’re slipping cryptic messages under the door to my flat, Jon. And also you’re on the run for _murder_. You’re not all right.”

Finally, his fingers caught on the lighter at the bottom of the drawer, and he pulled it out. After a gentle _flick_ and a small burst of flame, he set the note alight. The least he could do was remove any incriminating evidence, especially after Tonner had already threatened to pin the murder on him.

There was something seriously wrong with that woman.

He snorted. “As if there’s not something wrong with literally everything else.”

The flames crept up the paper until it was only a charred stub in his hand. And even then, he let it keep going until there was nothing but ashes and a bit of a blister forming on his fingers. It’d only take a minute or so to heal, so it’d be fine. Blisters were always his least favourite kind of injury when he was younger. Even now, with his lack of pain, he didn’t like them. They were ugly and gross, not to mention a pain in the arse to work with.

But he’d be fine.

Now if only he knew where Jon was.

He leaned back and rested his head against his pillow. He had no real starting point of any sort, and Jon didn’t even want to be found. Plus, Tonner had zeroed in on him like a bloodhound, and the last thing he needed was to make himself more suspicious. Or worse, lead her straight to Jon. It wasn’t like she’d pose much of a problem to Martin, but the risk of Jon getting hurt—or worse, seeing Martin have to kill her—wasn’t worth it.

Much as he’d love to pull Jon into his arms, kiss his forehead, tell him everything would be all right, and then take him out into the stars far from the hell their lives had become, Martin figured Jon wouldn’t appreciate it all that much. This was, of course, ignoring the whole ‘you can’t quit’ thing going on. And the fact that they weren’t even together.

Still, Jon had kissed _him_ , so why couldn’t he kiss _Jon_? He deserved that, dammit!

But no, Jon was running, hiding, scared, and Martin was just...alone. Just like he always was.

“I just need him to be safe,” he whispered to the fading blister.

* * *

His ringing phone startled him awake on a cold Monday morning in April. Sunlight streamed through foggy panes as he struggled to escape his twisted covers and snag the phone from his desk. He blinked blearily at the number, but he didn’t recognise it. Usually the spam filter caught these sorts of things. He considered briefly just ignoring, but there was a nagging thought lurking in the back of his sleep-addled mind. _What if it’s Jon?_

He answered the call and held the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he murmured.

“M-Martin?”

He bolted upright. “Jon!? Jon, where are you!?”

“I-I…” Jon sniffled. Oh no, he was _crying_. Martin’s heart bled. “I need help.”

Martin was already up, throwing open drawers and finding clothes as fast as he could. “Where are you? What happened?”

“You have a car, r-right?”

“I- yeah, I _do_ , but Jon—”

“I-I’m in Havering. Near Heath Park, I think? I...could you...could you come and get me…?”

Jon...came to him for help? That was...actually really comforting; at least Jon trusted him. “Yeah...yeah I can do that. It’ll take me about an hour but...but I’m on my way.” He pulled a shirt over his head and decided to ignore his sleep-sticky hair. “Are you okay?”

Jon hesitated. He took a shaky breath. “N-not really.”

Martin froze. Had...had Jonathan Sims just admitted that he wasn’t okay? Oh God, it must be really bad. “Are you...are you safe?”

“I-I think so.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” Jon whispered.

Martin bit his lip. “I’ll bring a first aid kit.”

“It...it’s bad.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Jon took a shaky breath. “Thank you, Martin,” he said. “I...I’m sorry.”

“Just hide out somewhere close by. I’ll find you.”

“A-all right.”

 _I love you,_ he wanted to say. But no, that wouldn’t be a good idea. He couldn’t put that on Jon. “I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“...Right.”

Jon hung up first.

Martin stood there for a moment, wishing he could call back and keep talking to him. It’d been _months_ since anyone had heard from him, and everything was such a mess. He missed Jon. He missed Sasha. Hell, he missed _Tim_ , and Tim was _right there_ apart from those couple weeks where he’d run off to Malaysia. But he’d been so distant and angry lately that they hadn’t even really spoken since everything had all gone down.

He just wanted everyone to be all right. Was that really too much to ask?

He took a deep breath and blew it out slow. It probably _was_ too much, if he was being honest with himself. Still. He could help Jon, and he was going to do it. If the police wanted to follow him, they were welcome to try. Tonner _probably_ wouldn’t try to kill him, at least. She’d be in for one hell of a surprise if she did, though.

He locked up his flat, then ran down the stairs and hopped into his car. He drove a bit more recklessly than he probably should, but he didn’t care. He _would_ find Jon, and he _would_ help him to be okay.

* * *

Martin leapt out of his car and looked around. The past hour had been...tense. But he was here now. He just had to find Jon.

He searched up and down the streets, peeking into each alleyway in the hopes of catching a glimpse of those brilliant green eyes. As it turned out, Jon had just used some random pay phone off the street, so Martin couldn’t even call him back and ask him where he was. Frustration bubbled in his gut, but he kept looking. He _would_ find Jon. It didn’t matter how long it took.

In the end, it was Jon who found him first. He’d just stooped down to toss some litter into a bin on the side of the road when he heard his name. He paused and looked around. _There_ , on a little side street behind a shop. Jon peeked around the corner, staring at him.

Martin straightened up, then glided past the few people on the sidewalk over to Jon.

He didn’t look well. His eyes were sunken and swollen from tears and lack of sleep. His fragile form was enveloped under a bulky black coat that clearly didn’t belong to him, and his hair had grown long and wild. He seemed to be favouring his right hand.

Jon’s eyes glittered with fresh tears, and something inside of Martin broke. He stepped closer and touched Jon’s arm gently, guiding him back behind the shop and hopefully away from any prying eyes. Then he stopped caring if anyone saw and pulled him close. He felt Jon tense in his arms, only briefly, before relaxing into his grip and clutching at Martin’s jumper with one hand. He was shaking.

Martin tried to blink back the mistiness in his eyes. It’d been _months_ since he’d last heard _anything_ from Jon. And now? Now he was here. He was in Martin’s arms, and he was scared and hurt. He didn’t intend to let go until Jon wanted him to.

“It’s all right, Jon,” he whispered, Jon’s hair tickling his lips as he nuzzled him close. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Jon stiffened, jerked back a bit. Then he leaned forward again, somehow closer than before and let out a quiet sob. “I’m sorry,” he said. “God, Martin, I-I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. I-I just- I—”

Martin pulled back and tipped Jon’s head up so he could look into his red-rimmed eyes. “Whatever’s going on—whatever’s happened—I’m more than happy to help you.”

“B-but the body, a-and the—”

“I don’t think it was you.”

Jon blinked, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “Y-you don’t?”

“No.”

He took a shuddering breath. “Good. Th-that’s...that’s good. I-I _didn’t_ , just in case there’s any doubt, but...God, I just...”

“Let’s just get you to the car, okay? We can talk more there.”

“Right...right, yeah that’s...that’s a good idea.”

Martin kept one arm over Jon’s shoulders and gently guided him back toward where he’d parked. He still wasn’t sure how badly Jon was hurt, but the way he was keeping his hand hidden from view and close to his chest gave him an indication as to where, at least. The smell of burnt flesh wafting up from Jon’s sleeve, though, punched him in the gut; he had a sinking feeling he knew what had happened.

Thank God he had some burn cream in his kit.

He pulled the passenger door open for Jon and ushered him in. Jon gave him a nervous look, but Martin nodded and gave him a smile he hoped was encouraging.

When he settled down behind the wheel, the smell was even worse. He pulled the door closed and grabbed his first aid kit from the backseat. Jon made a small squeak when Martin pulled out the burn cream, and he looked away with what might have been shame.

“You’re going to have to let me see, Jon,” he said softly. “I can’t help otherwise.”

“I-I know, I just...it’s...it’s bad. Very bad.”

“Had a feeling,” Martin sighed, remembering the last time he’d gotten burned bad. He really hadn’t _meant_ to piss off Ashes, but, well, their vengeance was at least swift. And it got the point across, too. He shook away the memory. “But I’ve dealt with bad burns before, and judging by the smell—no offense—I kind of have an idea of what we’re dealing with, here.”

Jon gulped. “I...yeah.”

“Just let me see. I’ll do what I can.”

“You know I can’t go to hospital, right?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jon. You’re on the run. I wasn’t planning on putting you in a position to get caught.”

Jon hummed. “Never thought this would happen to us, did you? What with- with the police and murder and all?”

“With you?” Martin chuckled. “No. Tim, maybe, but not you.”

“Right...how is he?”

“Jon. You’re stalling.”

His shoulders sank. “R-right.”

He placed a hand on Jon’s arm, and tried not to feel too put off when he flinched away. “I’ll tell you everything that’s been happening after we get you patched up, all right?”

“Right…”

He gently pulled the sleeve away and revealed the wound. He grimaced at the sight. The burn laced up and out from his palm, taking the shape of a handprint. Seared flesh hung loose and blackened, surrounded by glistening blisters, pus, and blood. It stretched all the way up to his elbow as an angry red mark. He’d seen worse, but damn. And on a mortal, no less. “Jesus, Jon.”

Jon didn’t say anything as Martin poured out some of the burn cream onto his hands and set about to do what he could. As gingerly as possible, he spread the cream over Jon’s palm and up his wrist. There was a lot of trembling and half-swallowed cries of pain, but other than that, Jon was pretty still.

“Who did this to you?” he asked, trying not to sound too menacing, but honestly he had half a mind to go out, find this person, and shoot them through the skull. A shame he hadn’t thought to bring along a gun. “And do I want to know why it’s in the shape of a hand?”

“Probably not,” Jon whispered. “But um...molten wax woman.”

“You shook her hand, didn’t you.”

“...Yes.”

Martin pulled out a roll of gauze. It wasn’t enough, but it’d do for now. He carefully began wrapping it over Jon’s hand, and tried not to think of all the ways he’d like to kill this molten wax woman. “Did you find her, or did she find you?”

“I...I sought her out.”

Martin tried to ignore the hiss of pain that slipped out of Jon as he wound the bandage round and round his ruined flesh. “Why did you do that?” Martin asked, keeping his voice steady as possible.

“I needed- needed answers.”

He pinned the gauze in place and searched around to see if he had any more. “Okay,” he said.

Jon’s eyes were fixed on his hand. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

“Can’t really do much if I’m panicking,” Martin sighed, giving up his search when it turned up empty. “Let’s just...do you want me to take you anywhere in particular? It’s not like you can go back to your flat...where’ve you been staying?”

Jon grimaced. “Georgie will kill me if I come back, now.”

“Georgie?” Martin asked. “Isn’t that your ex?”

“Y-yes,” Jon answered, suddenly taking an interest in the lamppost across the road. “I’ve been staying with her. Sh-she doesn’t know about...about the murder. O-or any of it, really.”

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

Martin sighed. “Jon, did you just disappear on her?”

Jon cleared his throat, shuffled around in his seat, pulled his coat tighter. “I um...I may have done that.”

“ _Christ_ , Jon! At least tell me you left her a _note_ or something!”

“I-I did! I did…”

They sat there, together and silent, for a long moment. Martin stared at Jon, and Jon looked at anything but Martin. “Jon, I—” What was he going to say? It wasn’t like he had any idea what was going on, and he wasn’t about to pry until Jon was actually ready to talk about it. “Just…tell me where you want to go, and I will take you there. I won’t even ask anything. Just...just tell me what you want me to do, and I will do it.”

Jon chuckled and picked at the gauze now covering his hand. “I...I really don’t know. I just...I wanted...I guess I just wanted to see you again.”

Martin’s heart did a little flip. “Well I um...I’m glad that you were thinking of me?” Seriously, how was he supposed to respond? “I’ll be honest, I’m just glad you’re not dead. I mean, you’ve been gone for two months!”

“I know. A-and I know you worry.”

Martin turned the ignition and eased out of his spot on the streetside. “I’m glad you at least left me a note.”

“I hope it didn’t get you into any trouble…”

“No. No, I burned it after I read it.” Jon winced, and Martin glanced at his hand. “Right...sorry.”

“It’s fine. Where um...where are we going?”

There was a faint buzz at the back of his skull, and before he’d even really registered the question, he was already answering. “My flat,” he said plainly. Then he realised that he’d said it. “I-I mean if you _want_ to. Obviously you don’t _have_ to come to my flat, but it’s safe there and I kind of want to keep an eye on you?” Oh God why was he saying any of this? “Sorry. That...that probably didn’t come out right.”

Jon looked away, but Martin still caught an expression of guilt on his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, although Martin had no idea why he was apologising. “That um...that’s fine. I don’t mind. A-admittedly, I don’t really want...I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Now it was Martin’s turn to look away. “Right. ‘Course.”

They drove in silence for awhile before the silence became much too loud for Martin. “It’ll be a bit before we get there. Do you want to listen to any music? Podcast maybe?”

Jon jumped a bit away from the window where he had been watching the other cars and passersby intently. “Anything’s fine,” he mumbled, ducking his head as if that would hide him from Martin’s view.

“Okay.” Martin began fiddling with the radio to find a station he liked—one with some calming lo-fi tunes.

“Actually…,” Jon said, looking up, “you mentioned you were in a band, didn’t you?”

Martin felt his face flush. “Y-yeah. I did, didn’t I?”

“I um...I looked it up, but didn’t find anything.”

“Oh!” Of course he didn’t find anything; they’d never played here before! It’s almost like he was trying to get found out, or something! “Did- did you want me to put some of our stuff on?”

“I think I’d like that.”

Internally, Martin was panicking. On the outside, he probably looked exactly like he was panicking. “There um...there should be some CDs in the seat behind you.”

Jon turned as best he could, but then he looked at Martin. “I...probably shouldn’t use my injured hand to pick those up.”

Martin felt like he was about to melt. “Well at least your self-preservation instincts finally kicked in,” he muttered. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have any.”

Jon wisely kept his mouth shut, and Martin pulled off onto a side road. He parked the car on the side, then reached back to grab the discs. “So, we’ve got ah… _Once Upon a Time (in Space)_ , _High Noon Over Camelot_ , or _Ulysses Dies at Dawn_. Which one sounds more interesting?”

“Martin, you have seven CDs there.”

“Yep, and you get to pick from three!”

“But what if I want to listen to one of the other four?”

Martin squinted at Jon, and Jon just smiled like a cat that just shat on its owner’s bed. “Well the two _Tales to Be Told_ albums are just extra songs without the story contexts, _Frankenstein_ is literally only ten minutes long, and we are, under _no_ circumstances, listening to _The Bifrost Incident_.”

Jon’s grin grew. “But what if I want to listen to that one anyway?”

“Absolutely not,” Martin said, his voice straining a bit more than he would like. “I _specifically_ told them that I wanted _nothing_ to do with that one, but d’Ville gave me a copy anyway because he’s a prick. We’re not listening to it.”

Jon put his hands up in defeat. “All right, all right. I’m sorry. How about...the third one you said. The one about Ulysses? I’ve always enjoyed Greco-Roman mythology."

Martin breathed a sigh. He wouldn’t have to listen to his own trauma. Good. Everything was fine. “Yeah?” he said with a smile, pushing the disc into the reader. “Just wait ‘til you hear it mixed with sci-fi and the mafia.”

* * *

The final chords of “Elysian Fields” were still ringing as they exited the car and headed up toward Martin’s flat. Jon dragged his feet on the concrete, and Martin had to fight the urge to just pick him up and carry him. He might not even argue, judging by the way his eyes were closed the whole ride up to the third storey. He stumbled as they exited the lift.

“It’s just down the hall, okay?” Martin murmured, tightening his grasp on Jon’s shoulder. “You can take the bed.”

Jon blinked slowly at him. “M-Martin, I can’t just—”

“It wasn’t a question, Jon.”

He sighed. “Right.”

Martin slid his key into the lock and pulled the door open. “Come on,” he said, and guided Jon inside.

Jon looked around the—admittedly messy—room. His tense shoulders relaxed a bit, and he seemed so small and weary. Martin would gladly cuddle him if Jon asked. Not that he ever would, but it was a nice thought. After all, they were in Martin’s _flat_.

Martin’s flat, where there were drawers pulled open and their contents scattered and strewn across the floor. “Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Martin chirped. “Panicked a bit when you called.”

Jon nodded. “It’s all right. More than...more than I could’ve asked.”

“Bedroom’s on the left,” Martin said, shifting back and forth on his feet. “Unless you...want something to eat first? When was the last time…?”

Jon grasped the hand that was draped over his shoulder, and Martin froze. “I um...I think I should probably rest.” He looked up, and his eyes glittered with gratitude. “Thank you, Martin. I...I really appreciate—” he gestured around them “—all of this.”

Martin smiled and tried to keep his little gay heart from pounding out of existence. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “I’m honestly just glad that you’re safe.”

Jon looked away. “I...yeah.”

“C’mon.”

He guided Jon into his bedroom ( _Jon was in his bedroom!_ ) and helped him under the sheets. Admittedly, Jon could probably do that himself, but Martin let himself indulge in that caretaker role he’d taken on so long ago.

Jon looked up at him, so small—so _fragile_ —under the covers. “I’m sorry about all this, Martin. I wouldn’t...I promise I’ll leave once I’ve recovered a bit.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Martin smiled. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” And he meant it. Oh, how he meant it.

“I don’t want to put you in danger.”

Martin chuckled—he couldn’t help it. “As long as I know you’re safe, I’m not worried.”

“B-but the police—”

“Are the least of my concerns, Jon.”

“But you—”

“Go to sleep, Jon.”

“...All right.”

And with that, Martin slowly closed the door and let the man rest. It was only mid-afternoon, and sunlight filtered in through the window.

Jonathan Sims was in his bed.

Martin plopped down on the couch and tried very hard not to think about that. He turned on the telly and tried to watch a movie, but he just...couldn’t focus. Not with everything going on.

Jon had come to him for help. Jon _trusted_ him—at least enough to let Martin tend his wounds and sleep in his flat (in his _bed_!). Jon had even remembered small details about him, like the fact that he had a car and had told him about the band. From a man neck-deep in paranoia, Martin was pretty sure that was a very high compliment.

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at his messages. Oh...great; Melanie had blown it up while he’d been driving. Four missed calls and twenty-three new messages.

**Sent at 9:24**

**Hey martin**

**Martin**

**Mahtin**

**Maaaahhhhhhhtin**

**Where are you?**

**You sick?**

**Yo**

**Stop ignoring me**

**You better not be pulling a tim on me**

**Martin blackwood i stg pick up your phone**

**Stinky**

**Gay bitch boy answer me dammit**

**I do not like being ghosted**

**And i know ghosts**

**Dont be a prick**

**Sent at 10:36**

**Heyhey tim said you’re sick i didn’t think that was a thing you could do at this point**

**Feel better i guess**

**Don’t do anything stupid**

Martin rolled his eyes and checked the rest of his messages. The others seemed to be a couple from Tim letting him know that he listened to the voicemail he’d left while driving to Havering, and that he hoped everything was fine. It read bland, but Martin knew Tim still cared about him, even if he hated Jon and Elias at this point. Another was from Rosie letting him know she got the message as well and would put it in as paid sick-leave. That was nice of her.

He pressed the redial and waited for Melanie to pick up. He was actually feeling pretty tired, so it wouldn’t take too much effort to convince her that he really was sick.

She picked up after the first ring. “Took you long enough,” she snorted.

“Been a rough day,” Martin replied, shrugging.

“You gonna come in tomorrow?”

Martin glanced at his bedroom door. “No...no, I don’t think so.”

“Well at least you haven’t decided to run off to the other side of the planet.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “How um...how is he?”

“Tim? Same as always. Pissy and angry and not willing to be useful.”

Martin sighed. He missed Tim’s carefree attitude and willingness to lend a hand. Plus making jokes at every point he could. Nowadays he was just cold and uncooperative. “Yeah...that sounds about right.”

“So’re you really sick, or did you just decide you didn’t want to work today.”

“It’s not like Elias would fire me if I did,” he snorted.

“So you admit it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’t disagree, either.”

Martin could almost see her wicked grin creeping up her face. “I just woke up not feeling all that well. I’m a bit better now, but I mean...it happens. Just decided I wanted to use up some of my sick leave; I’ve...got a good bit saved up.”

“Fair enough,” she said. There was a pause. “Soooo Basira came by today.”

He thought back to their last conversation. Her number was still sitting on the kitchen counter, and he really ought to give her a call. But what if he couldn’t trust her? It wasn’t like he had the greatest relationship with cops, former or otherwise. “Oh? What did she want?”

“Was just asking around if anyone had heard anything about Daisy or Jon. Then asked if you were in. Didn’t say why.”

“Oh!” Why had she been asking after him? Had she learned something? Did she know he had Jon? “W-what did you tell her?”

He could pretty much feel the shrug. “Just said you weren’t in. Didn’t know when you’d be back."

"What did she say?"

"Are you doing illegal shit that I should know about, Martin?"

Martin sighed. "Just answer the question, Melanie."

"Not hearing a 'no' there," she snickered. "She just walked away. That's all."

"Okay then."

There was a pause. "Soooooo Martin. What're you up to?"

Martin rolled his eyes. "I'm sitting on my couch watching the telly."

"And why didn't you answer earlier, hmm?"

"Because I was _busy_."

"Busy with what?"

This entire conversation was getting to be too much. "Well I mean I was _asleep_ for awhile. Then I had to get food. Wasn't really checking my phone since I told Tim I wouldn't be in today."

"Sure, sure. Keep your secrets, but I'm onto you, Blackwood."

If he rolled his eyes much more, they might fall out. "I'm gonna go back to the telly now," he said.

"All right then!"

" _Goodbye_ , Melanie."

"Byeee—"

Martin ended the call and tossed the phone to the other side of the couch. Melanie didn't need to know anything. She'd already started in on teasing him at work, and he really didn't want to deal with it right now. As long as she didn't find out about Jon, things would be fine.

Jon, who was safe now. Safe in his flat, in his bedroom, asleep and secure. Jon, whom he was prepared to do just about anything for at this point, despite all their former clashings.

“Should I tell him?” he wondered out loud. He wasn’t even sure what he _wanted_ to tell him. That he might be a little bit in love with him? That he was slightly immortal? It felt like a lot to dump on someone, especially given the current situation.

He really ought to call Basira and tell her that he had Jon and to keep Tonner the hell away from him, but something held him back. He wanted to protect Jon’s privacy, he reasoned, and left it at that. There was no point in wondering why he wouldn’t go to people for help. He was an honest-to-God immortal space pirate; he had everything under control.

Probably, anyway.

He groaned and laid back on the couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, but it would do. He wasn’t exactly sore, but his tense muscles relaxing into the cushions was a lovely feeling. He knew that, had he still been capable of pain, he’d be sore as hell. But that was okay, because Jon was safe, and now he could protect him. He glanced over at one of the unopened drawers—the one that held his favourite pistol—and grinned.

If anyone dared to try, they wouldn’t be thrilled with the results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) @TheRealAndian!


	12. The Hanged Man Rusts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh school is kicking my ass, folks. I have one more chapter saved up, but after that, I have no idea when the fic will update next. Just expect the next chapter in a couple weeks, and I guess we'll see what happens?
> 
> CW: panic attack, mentioned past domestic abuse (from a partner), blood, mentioned past parental neglect
> 
> But at least we have some h/c and Jon properly apologising for being a prick!

Gunfire spread over the landscape like raindrops on a spring morning in London. Screams could be heard across the barren wastes and through the radio feeds mingling together in his ears. He held a rifle in his hands and blasted through yet another nameless and faceless soldier and turned to face another. Bullets ripped through his spacesuit, but he didn’t care, even as the alarms blared around him and warned that he had no air. He fired again.

His comrades sprawled over the dust and gasped for the air that was no longer available. He ignored them; they were already as good as dead. Inside the base, he knew those feral dogs heeded their master’s orders and fought tooth and claw to keep any of the enemy soldiers out, but it really was only a matter of time.

One of the soldiers from his side still fighting looked at him as another enemy went down. “Where’s Hereward?” the man asked.

Martin grimaced. Everything was always about _Hereward_. No one gave a shit about him—not even the Mechanisms! No one cared that Hereward was an abusive douche who only cared about what he could get from others without doing anything for himself. _What a hero,_ he thought grimly.

He’d been all right, all things considered, before Hereward had been exiled. They’d led a fairly lavish lifestyle, and even if the entire family was a bunch of rich snobs, even he had to admit that they had decent tastes. It wasn’t Ashes’s level of aesthetic taste, but it wasn’t as bad as Marius’s, and that was always a plus in his book.

But then the prick had to go and get himself exiled, then run off and tout about freedom and taking down the “dreaded overlords who steal away our people, land, and rights” and all that other bullshit, when really he’d already had that to begin with. Even the poorer folk had it pretty nice, and they had known it too! It wasn’t until Hereward decided to start making a fuss about oppressive rulers that things actually started to get bad, and that was mostly because some of his loyalists had taken it upon themselves to start getting up in arms against the Confederation.

And now they were all here: fighting a losing battle on some nameless backwater asteroid that no one cared about. It was probably a good thing no one knew that it had been _Martin_ to give away the secret passageways through the Belt to the so-called ‘holy man’. Really, the man was just a greedy little snitch who wanted more money for vodka. Bastard.

He felt a bullet pierce through his neck, and his body went limp beneath him. Well, he supposed he could float around a bit until his spine healed back up. Although his suit still wasn’t going to repair itself, so he was probably just going to stay ‘dead’ for a bit. That was fine. He’d already found and buried Hereward’s lifeless body earlier. Right after he’d shot him through the chest a few times. It didn’t really matter if he’d been dead yet or not. He sure as hell was now.

It’d felt good, too. Strange, that; back before joining up with the Mechanisms, and even after several decades beside them, killing just didn’t do it for him. He wasn’t exactly bloodthirsty. Killing Hereward had been nice, though. Cathartic, really. A good close on an otherwise unpleasant chapter.

He gasped for air as his body slowly began to descend back toward the dust. The crew would find him eventually, and then probably send Brian out to retrieve him. Marius would pretend to be a doctor for a bit, and then he’d be tossed onto his bed on the Aurora and left to heal. He could use a bit of a break, anyway. Then he could find out a way to get back at Jonny for selling him as a servant, the prick. Shooting him in the face wouldn’t do much, although he was sure it would help him feel better. Seriously, ten years was, even for his immortal self, too long. It’d been boring as hell right up until Hereward decided to marry him against his knowledge (it wasn’t _his_ fault he was drunk) and then run off to start a revolution that really didn’t need to happen.

Ugh. Tim was probably going to write a bloody song about this. He should probably shoot him, too.

* * *

Something crashed in the next room, and Martin bolted upright, trying to suppress the rage still burning in his core. Jonny had _definitely_ deserved getting left behind on that water world. If only he would’ve stayed put and kept drowning for a few more years. How the hell he’d made it off-planet, found him, and shot him in the back in retaliation, Martin was pretty sure he would never find out. Not that it mattered.

There was another crash—smaller this time—followed by a pathetic whine. Where was he again? Oh yeah, his flat. Was there someone else in—

Jon.

Martin leapt off the couch and ran toward his bedroom, throwing the door open and beholding the scene before him.

Jon knelt on the floor, cradling his injured hand. His back hitched up and down as he sobbed. The blankets tangled around him like cotton waves, and his hair stood up in tangled loops and sweat-soaked spikes.

Martin stepped into the room, careful to make enough noise to let Jon know he was there, but not frighten him. “Jon?” he asked.

Jon curled further inward and tugged his hand closer to his chest. Martin was close enough now to see that he was shaking.

He reached out his own hand, hesitating to place it on Jon’s shoulder. “What’s wrong, Jon? What can I do to help?”

He set his hand upon the man’s shoulder after another moment of tense silence. Jon stiffened, shrunk away. Martin pulled his hand back and resigned himself to just sit down nearby. “Did you have a nightmare?” he asked carefully, not wanting to accidentally belittle Jon and make him think he was treating him like a child or something.

Jon simply nodded.

“A-all right,” Martin said, shifting a bit so he could peer over Jon’s shaking arms. He supposed nightmares made sense, given the insanity that had happened in just the past few months. Not to mention all that’d happened in the past _year_. “How can I help?”

Jon finally looked up and stared back at Martin. His eyes...weren’t quite right. They were green, of course, but they almost seemed to be...glowing? That couldn’t be right. His pupils were blown wide, and the light of the dying sun gleaming through the window—dim though it was—probably hurt a bit. He didn’t say anything.

Martin wrung his hands, wanting to look away, but finding that he just _couldn’t_. “Do...do you want me to just sit here with you? I-I won’t touch you or anything- I mean- I guess unless you _want_ me to. Heh.”

He’d meant it as a joke. Jon didn’t laugh.

“I-I’ll just...I’ll just sit here, then. Is that okay?”

After a beat, still staring and silent (had he even blinked yet?), Jon nodded. He looked back at the ground, and Martin realised he’d been holding his breath. He’d been just on the brink of passing out, too. Thank goodness _that_ hadn’t happened. He couldn’t really imagine explaining it to a slightly-traumatised Jon.

The two of them sat there in silence. Jon stared at the floor, and Martin stared at Jon’s injured hand. It needed to be redressed; some of the blisters had popped open during his struggle against the sheets. Maybe he could find some decent painkiller, too. He’d had quite a few before the change, so maybe they would help as long as they weren’t all expired.

He certainly didn’t miss taking a literal cocktail of pills every morning and afternoon to keep the pain at bay. He still wouldn’t have willingly traded it for immortality, but at least it was _one_ perk. He was pretty sure his liver was thanking Carmilla on a daily basis. Except for when Martin chugged an outrageous amount of alcohol, of course, but that was beside the point. Assuming that there _was_ a point.

It wasn’t until about twenty minutes later that Jon finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Martin gave him a small smile. “That’s all right. I think we both know how bad nightmares can be.”

“I dreamed about Daisy. She said that she would find me. That she would kill me. That...that it would h-hurt.”

Red flashed in Martin’s vision, and he had to seriously fight the urge to wrap Jon up in his arms and hold him tight. “I won’t let her,” he said darkly.

Jon met his eyes, but didn’t say anything—just looked back down. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to stop her.”

Ow. That stung. “I really hope I don’t have to prove you wrong on that,” he replied, hoping he looked somewhat relaxed and not angry. “But if I do wind up having to, I’m going to remember that.”

Jon gave him the tiniest of smiles before his face faded back into fear and discomfort. “I don’t think I can even really blame her,” he murmured.

“Why’s that?”

He swallowed, looked away. “I-I don’t...I’m not sure if I, well...i-if I’m entirely human anymore.”

Martin’s brow furrowed. “How come?”

“I…” He sighed heavily. “I think the dreams might be real. N-not all of them, but the ones of the people who...who gave statements. Live ones. I see them now, in my dreams, all trapped in whatever situation they told me about. Sometimes they see me, and they look so afraid. But when I look down to see _why_ , I...all I see are eyes.”

“Well that can’t be good,” Martin said, which probably wasn’t the most comforting thing he could’ve said. “I-I mean...you’re not all eyes right _now_ , so at least there’s that?”

“N-no. I’m not.”

First Prentiss, then no one could quit, then there was murder and that thing that _definitely_ wasn’t Sasha, and now Jon was turning into an eyeball monster that haunted people’s dreams? There was something seriously wrong with the Institute, and if it had to do with eldritch abominations from the space between realities, he was going to have words with whoever was in charge of that.

Did the unknown and squamous things have a manager? He would very much like to ask why the hell they kept coming back into his life.

“Jon,” he said carefully, “regardless of humanity or lack thereof, I’m still your friend. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Jon blinked at him. “Do...do you really mean that?” he asked, his voice wobbling and eyes shining with a new batch of tears.

“‘Course I do. I care about you, Jon. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He looked away again. “O-oh.”

When Jon drew in a heavy, shaking breath, and tears began to retrace the marks on his face, Martin stopped holding back. He scooted closer, reaching out his arms. “C’mere,” he said, pulling Jon to his chest. This time Jon didn’t pull away.

It was still strange, seeing the man emotional. He’d been a brick wall for so long, and through all the paranoia and fear it was hard to tell what was really going on in his mind. Now he just seemed...broken. Whatever had happened that had left a man beaten to death by a metal pipe must have...really freaked him out.

Martin combed his fingers through Jon’s long, wild hair. Without really thinking about it, he started to slowly braid it. His fingers were fat and clumsy, and Jon’s thin hair _really_ didn’t want to settle, but eventually there was a trio of braids cascading down past Jon’s shoulders. They weren’t very tight, and they could easily unravel on their own, but it looked semi-nice.

Jon was leaning into his chest and it was mildly distracting, but Martin had it on good authority (i.e. everyone he’d ever tried to date and then some) that he made for a damn good pillow, so he wasn’t about to move. It wasn’t until Jon’s thin shoulders slumped and his breathing slowed that Martin realised he’d fallen asleep. On Martin.

His heartbeat began to pound. _Don’t panic,_ he told himself, for all the good that would do. _Don’t you_ dare _panic._ He could handle this. He would be _just fine_! _Oh God Jonathan Sims is asleep on my chest what the hell do I do oh God shit dammit why is he so damn pretty one man does not deserve to be this pretty what the hell am I supposed to do now I can’t just let him sleep on the floor against me he’ll be so damn sore—_

At this point, Martin’s internal monologue decided to turn into incoherent screaming, rather than actual thoughts.

He pulled his arms tight around Jon, hoping he could get away with picking him up and putting him back on the bed. Of course, that elicited a small, pleasured sigh from Jon, and that really wasn’t something Martin needed to hear. (But it was lovely, oh so lovely.) As if he hadn’t already fantasied about spending nights cuddled up in bed with Jon, kissing each of those horrid worm scars and telling him just how much he cared about him. How much he loved him.

_Do not think about kissing him when he’s asleep in your arms you complete idiot. He doesn’t see you that way and you know it._

Oh good, his thoughts were actual thoughts again.

After several minutes of holding Jon, praying that he would just wake up, Martin concluded that the only way to get Jon back in bed was by placing him there himself. He slipped one arm under Jon’s knees and carefully hoisted him up. Jon didn’t waken, which was really quite good since Martin had no idea what he would say in that situation, but he did shift his arm to grasp onto Martin’s shirt with his uninjured hand. Martin suppressed a delighted shiver and gently laid Jon back onto the mattress, setting his head upon the pillow and tucking the sheets around him. He still hadn’t let go of Martin.

He wanted to stay there. He wanted to sit beside—or maybe lay down next to—Jon and keep him safe and protected. But he figured that waking up to see _Martin,_ of all people, watching him as he slept wouldn’t be fun for Jon. Besides, the bed wasn’t really big enough for both of them unless Martin practically laid on top of him and cradled him close. No matter how much he _wanted_ to do that, he couldn’t betray Jon’s trust. So instead, he carefully pried Jon’s fingers from his shirt and headed back out of the room.

Jon would be okay, he told himself. Jon would be back to normal soon, and then they could clear up the whole murder thing and send everyone on their ways. Of course, that was only in an ideal world, and this world was _far_ from ideal. But as long as he knew where Jon was, he could protect him.

He headed into his little kitchen and braced his palms on the counter. Maybe he should cook something for when Jon finally woke up properly. He wasn’t all that sure of what he had at his disposal, but surely he could whip up something quick. Maybe a soup? Something nice and homey and comforting.

Yeah, he could make some soup. Jon would probably like that.

He set about finding the biggest pot he had in his cabinets and filled it up with stock. Chicken soup was doable; he had all the things for it. Plus, there was just something about chicken soup that always brought him back to easier times.

He didn’t have any chicken prepped for it, so he boiled some water in a smaller pot while he cut off the less appealing bits of the chicken. After he’d cut the meat into smaller strips, he tossed it all into the pot along with some herbs and spices and let it simmer.

While that was cooking, he started to dice up some vegetables. At some point, he must’ve nicked his finger, because there was suddenly blood everywhere. He frowned at it; after centuries of existing, you’d think he’d be better with a knife, and not just when it came to stabbing d’Ville.

He sighed and washed his hands. The cut was already healing up, anyway. “Guess I get to try that again,” he muttered. He moved the cutting board away and pulled out his smaller backup. He would clean it up later.

Eventually, after about another half-hour of prep work and only a few minutes of actually cooking, the soup was left simmering on the stove. It should be ready soon, and it would be nice and warm for when Jon finally woke up.

So that left Martin to sit around and twiddle his thumbs. He’d already cleaned up the bloodied cutting board and thrown out the contaminated vegetables. A shame and a waste, but he was making this to share with someone else, so they wouldn’t exactly be sanitary to use. Just because he didn’t really care about it didn’t mean that Jon wouldn’t.

Bored, he pulled out one of his older poetry books and flipped through the pages toward some of his better work. He may have been just an amateur when it came to poetry, but that wouldn’t stop him from enjoying some of it. His books only dated back a few decades, but they were his, and he was honestly quite proud of how many poems he’d written. And how many tales he had saved through writing. It wasn’t his place to pick and choose what deserved to be immortalised; he wasn’t as picky as d’Ville.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t written anything in a few days.

He laid the book back under the couch where he hid all his work from prying eyes and pulled out the newest of the books. It was still thin with unworn pages and crisp lines. Smiling softly, he pulled a pen from his pocket and began to write.

 _Your weight against me_ _  
_ _Soft, warm_ _  
_ _Your trust in me_ _  
_ _Comforting, wonderful_ _  
_ _Your fear of everything around you_ _  
_ _Worrying_ _  
_ _But I will protect you_ _  
_ _I will keep you safe from the monsters_ _  
_ _If only you would let me_

Martin grinned. It wasn’t great, but anytime he wrote, he still felt a surge of pride and accomplishment. And when it was about Jon, well...he couldn’t help but feel warm inside. He continued to write.

 _I would hold you in my arms_ _  
_ _I would blot out the world_ _  
_ _And let you rest_ _  
_ _I would tear down a planet for you_ _  
_ _If you would let me_

 _Tell me what you want_ _  
_ _And I will do it_ _  
_ _Anything for you would be done_ _  
_ _Even if you want me to leave_ _  
_ _I will do it_

 _Ask me of my demons_ _  
_ _And they will be revealed_ _  
_ _Ask me whatever secrets I hold_ _  
_ _And I will tell you all_ _  
_ _I will do it_

 _Is this love?_ _  
_ _Perhaps it is_ _  
_ _I do not know why_ _  
_ _My heart has chosen you_ _  
_ _But I will follow its lead_ _  
_ _And I will protect you from_ _  
_ _The things that haunt you_   
_And hold back the darkness_ _  
_ The darkness that stalks you

_If only you would l—_

A sharp, acrid scent hit his nose, interrupting his thoughts. Was something burning? He looked over at the door to his bedroom, remembering the warped and burned flesh of Jon’s hand. This didn’t smell like that. What was—

_Oh shit, the soup!_

He fumbled off the couch and managed not to fall over as he made it into the kitchen. How the hell did he burn _soup_!? He lifted the pot off the burner and quickly shut it off. Some of the vegetables had gotten caught on the bottom of the pan and had sat there in the steady simmering heat. And now they were burnt.

Martin groaned. So much for something nice for Jon. Now he was just going to traumatise him all over again or something. As if things hadn’t been burned enough already.

He briefly considered tossing it all in the bin and starting over with one of the cans in his cabinet instead, but canned food really wasn’t the most appetising thing these days. And besides, most of the soup was still fine, even if the stuff on the bottom was bad.

Sighing, he poured the still-edible bits into another pot and tossed the rest into the trash. Some of the bits were still stuck to the bottom, but he could scrub it out later once it’d cooled.

A soft squeak of hinges pulled him out of his regrets and turned his attention toward the bedroom. “M-Martin?” Jon’s voice called hesitantly.

Martin rounded the counter and walked in front of him. “Hey Jon,” he said. “You feeling all right?”

Jon stared at the floor. “Y-yes. I think so, anyway.” He messed with the gauze still wound around his wrist. “I-I just thought...I thought I smelled something burning.”

 _Oops._ Martin scratched at the back of his neck self-consciously and glanced at the kitchen. “Yeah I um...I made soup. Then kind of forgot it for a bit?”

“Ah.”

“Could’ve been worse?”

“R-right.”

He was silent for a beat, unsure of what to say. “D-do you _want_ to eat anything? O-or is there something else that I could do? The um...the loo’s right behind you if you need to use it.”

Jon glanced behind him at the door to the tiniest loo Martin had ever had the displeasure of needing to use regularly. “I...I could probably do to use the toilet. M-maybe shower, too, if that’s all right.”

Martin smirked. “‘Course it’s all right, Jon,” he said. “You’re welcome to use anything in there. Don’t know if I have anything that’ll fit you, though.”

“Th-that’s...that’s fine. I can just put back on what I’m wearing.”

“That kind of defeats the purpose of showering.”

Jon squirmed. “Well...it’s not like I can wear _your_ clothes…”

“You could,” Martin shrugged. “I’ve got some longer jumpers that would probably cover you.”

Jon cleared his throat. “That’s um...that’s kind of you, Martin, but I’m really not going to take your clothes.”

Martin waved his hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll just pop down to a shop tomorrow and find something you can wear.”

“You really don’t have t—”

“I _want_ to, Jon. Now go take a shower.”

Jon stopped and stared. He almost looked conflicted. “Have you got any painkiller?” he suddenly blurted. Then he looked like he regretted saying anything at all. “I-if not, I’ll um...I’ll manage.”

Martin softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

He touched Jon’s elbow and turned him toward the restroom. It was a bit of a squeeze with both of them inside, but Jon was thankfully pretty small. Martin reached up in the medicine cabinet and took down a bottle of some of the strongest stuff he had. “Only one,” he ordered, holding out the bottle to Jon. “Any more and you’ll pass out in the shower.”

Jon winced. “I’ll take your word for it.” He jiggled the bottle with his one hand until he managed to get a pill out onto the counter. Then he popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed without hesitation.

Martin stared at him. “D’you want some water or something to wash that down?”

“No, I’m all right. I think I just need to...to well—” he gave a short laugh “—well to shower, at the very least.”

Martin hovered a moment before setting the pill bottle back in its place. “I’ll leave you to it then. Shout if you need something. I’ll set out a towel for you.”

As he turned to leave, he heard Jon very faintly whisper “Thank you.”

He closed the door behind him and sighed.

* * *

“Would you hold still?” Martin grumbled, trying not to manhandle Jon too much.

Jon flinched as Martin pulled the bandage a bit more secure, almost pulling his arm away again. “Easier s-said than done,” he hissed.

They were sat on the floor, and somehow Martin had wound up nearly engulfing a still slightly-damp Jon beneath him as he struggled to keep the man still enough to actually help him. Was it distracting that his legs were wrapped around Jon’s stomach and his head leaning over Jon’s shoulder while Jon’s good hand clasped his arm tight? Yes. But for the love of the universe, this man did not know how to hold still.

Finally, the bandages were all in place, and much as he didn’t really want to, Martin released Jon from his four-limbed prison. “Better?” he asked.

He wasn’t expecting Jon to lean back and rest his head against his chest, but he wasn’t about to complain, either. “A-a bit,” Jon said. “Whatever was in that pill helped, I think.”

Martin very slowly began to wrap his arms back around Jon, but Jon gave a surprised squeak and bolted back upright. “Sorry—!”

“Sorry!” Jon gasped, eyes wide and cheeks red with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t realise that I...that I’d done that. S-sorry.”

Trying not to seem _too_ disappointed, Martin cracked a smile. “It’s fine, Jon. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just...I know I haven’t exactly been, well, er... _professional_ about all this, and I—”

A short laugh shot out of Martin. “I don’t think anyone could _possibly_ expect you to be _professional_ about being a murder suspect and then getting the shit burnt out of your hand, Jon. _Maybe_ Elias, and even that’s pushing it.”

“I…” Jon snorted. “Yeah, I guess that _does_ sound ridiculous. But still, I...I know I’m rather...well, I’m not at my best, right now, I guess.”

“That’s okay, Jon,” Martin replied, letting his hand hover next to Jon’s without actually taking it—that would be Jon’s choice. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you low before.”

“B-but—”

“Jon. None of this has been your fault.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. “I...right. Right.” He considered briefly Martin’s hand still beside his. He took it, winding his fingers between Martin’s. A delighted shiver ran through Martin’s body. “Thank you,” Jon said. “I don’t...I don’t deserve a friend like you.”

Martin frowned, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “That’s not true. Everyone deserves someone to help in bad times. Even you.”

Jon blinked up at him. “I-I’ll try to believe that,” he said after a moment.

Rubbing his thumb over Jon’s, Martin smiled. “I’m gonna go warm up that soup for us, all right?”

Jon gave him a watery smile in return. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

Martin gave him a light bump with his shoulder as he got to his feet. Internally, he was still freaking out a bit about Jon holding his hand. It wasn’t like it was the first time they’d done that, but this felt more...substantial, somehow. This time, Jon wasn’t in a playful mood or drunk. This time, Jon came to him for comfort. For help.

So he was having a bit of a gay panic at the most likely made-up likelihood of Jon liking him back.

He should probably just admit his feelings, if he was being totally honest with himself—it wasn’t as if Jon didn’t already know. ( _Surely_ he knew; he couldn’t be completely blind about this, could he?)

It didn’t matter. What _did_ matter right now was ensuring that Jon felt safe here. It also mattered that Martin didn’t burn the soup again. He flipped the burner back on and went to get some bowls and spoons. It’d only take a minute to heat, so as long as he didn’t get too distracted, it’d be fine.

Everything would be _fine_.

He heard Jon shuffle into the tiny kitchen. “It smells good,” he murmured, leaning against the counter.

“Thanks!” Martin said. “I’ve been perfecting the recipe for a while now. Got it from my Nan.”

Jon hummed. “Mine never really taught me to cook. She mostly just wanted me out of the way, I think.”

Martin shot him a glance. “That’s...honestly, that sounds like my mum.”

“I guess we have that in common,” Jon snorted, “slightly neglectful parent figures.”

“That’s not exactly a good thing, you know.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

Martin rolled his eyes and started to dish out the soup. “It does explain some things, I guess, but it’s still sad.”

“Oh?” Jon asked, reaching for one of the bowls.

They returned to the couch with their food. “Yeah. I mean, you’re always trying to prove yourself, and you’re always nervous about screwing things up and having people call you out on it.” _Ugh, I sound like Marius._

“I...shit, yeah. That...that’s exactly…” He stopped and set his soup on the table in front of the couch. “Martin?”

“Hm?”

“Is...is that how you feel, too?”

Martin bit his lip. “It’s...gotten better over the years, but yeah. A bit, anyway.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry. I took all of that fear out on you and you...you were already dealing with the same thing. I mean, it doesn’t...it doesn’t mean it would’ve been all right _anyway_ , but...I’m sorry. For what it’s worth.”

Martin brightened a bit. “Apology accepted. Thank you for finally admitting to being a prick.”

Jon glared up at him, but there was a smile hidden in there. “Rude.”

“Yes,” Martin giggled. “Yes I am. Ask anyone who knows me.”

Jon gave him a slight shove, and a bit of soup sloshed from Martin’s bowl to his hand. He grimaced and wiped it off. The skin turned red, but it wasn’t _too_ bad. _Hopefully he won’t notice._

Of course, he _did_ notice. “Sorry,” Jon whispered.

Martin sighed. “It’s fine. Doesn’t hurt all that much. I’ll be fine.” _He’s going to find out one of these days._ “Telly?”

Jon regarded his hand a bit longer, then glanced at his own with a sullen expression. “Sure,” he said.

Martin pressed the button on the remote and leaned back, praying that Jon didn’t see the small blister that formed where the soup had hit, nor when it faded back into regular pale skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Cooking With Martin! Where Martin burns soup and cuts himself without noticing because he's _very_ talented!
> 
> Like I said, I'll post again in a couple weeks, but after that, I have no buffer whatsoever anymore, and school's taking up pretty much all of my time and energy. But! I am _not_ going to abandon Redeath. I enjoy this AU far too much, and I can tell you guys do, too. It's really encouraging to see all your comments ^-^
> 
> Follow me over on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) at @TheRealAndian!


	13. One-Eyed Jacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slightly late, but here's some yearning!
> 
> CW: Blood, panic attacks, guns (Daisy), manipulation (Elias), hopeless yearning  
> Seriously, though, Jon has a full-blown panic attack, and it is entirely Daisy's fault. Tea solves all problems, though, so he'll be okay.

Martin bounced anxiously while the phone dialed. He should’ve called her ages ago. He should’ve messaged her or _something_.

And now Jon had up and disappeared again.

 _We had something!_ his heart wailed. _We could’ve been together and made it work!_

The slightly more sensible side of him tried to make sense of it. _Jon thought he was putting me in danger. He left because he thought it would protect me._

I’m _the one who’s supposed to protect_ him _!_

_And now he’s gone, because I didn’t have the guts to tell him anything._

The phone rang, but Basira hadn’t picked up yet. He jumped from the couch and started pacing. _Where did he go? Did he go back to Georgie? It’s not like I can ring her and ask._

 _And what if he_ didn’t _go there? He was on the laptop last night. Did he find a lead? Did he run off to find some other monster like the one that just hurt him!?_

_What's he going to do out there on his own? He needs help! Why won't he just let me help!?_

"Hello?" said a voice on the other end of the phone. "Who's this?"

Martin jolted out of his thoughts. "Basira!" he shouted. He took a breath. “S-sorry. I-it's Martin.”

“Martin?” she asked. “Why are you calling me at five in the morning?”

Was it really that early? Yes. Apparently it was. “I-I—”

“Did you find Jon?”

He slumped down onto the couch and buried his head. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“Is he...he’s not dead, is he?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No! No, nothing like that...I just. He…” He let out a long sigh. “I should’ve called the other day. He came to me for help, but now he’s run off again and I don’t know where he’s gone.”

Basira didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asked, her voice mirroring Ashes whenever someone managed to piss them off.

“I thought I could keep him safe,” he whispered, knowing just how ridiculous that would sound to someone who didn’t know what he was.

He heard a sharp breath through the tinny speaker. “You do realise that Daisy would kill you _both_ , right?” she growled. “In her mind, he’s guilty. She’s going to kill him, and there’s no way you can stop her from doing that.”

“I-I know,” he said. Guilt gnawed on his soul; what if Jon got killed now because he’d been too prideful? “I just wanted to keep him safe.”

“Well you’re not doing a very good job of it,” she spat.

“Thanks.”

She groaned. “And you don’t know where he’s gone? Did he mention anything at all? It doesn’t have to be an address, just _something_.”

“N-no. He…” The laptop. “Actually, I might be able to find out if we’re really lucky.”

She snorted, but didn’t say anything. Martin grabbed the laptop with his shaking free hand, nearly dropping the damn thing from sheer nerves alone. He tapped the screen on and prayed to whatever god there might be that Jon had left some sort of clue.

There was a message left on the screen, typed straight into a bloody Google Doc.

_Martin,_

_I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m sorry for putting you in danger. You’ve been a good friend, and I don’t want you to die because of me. If you can still leave the Institute, then_ **_do it._ ** _If you can’t, I’m sorry._

_Thank you for helping me. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I just wanted to say that if I never get another chance to._

_I’m still trying to figure everything out, but I might be onto something. Please don’t come looking for me; I’ll be all right._

_And whatever you do,_ **_DON’T TRUST ELIAS!!_ **

_Goodbye._

_Jon_

“Have you found anything?” Basira asked, sounding impatient.

“I...he left me a note. Sorry; was reading.” He glanced over it again, heart breaking at the sight of Jon leaving him _something_. _Again_. “H-he didn’t say where he was going. Just that he’s still trying to figure everything out. And to not trust Elias.”

Basira hummed. “So he thinks Elias did it. Definitely more plausible.”

Would Elias have framed Jon like that? He _was_ a bit weird, but a killer? It was hard to tell.

Then again, no one would exactly look at _him_ and know he’d killed people before, so he supposed he really wasn’t one to judge.

“Is there anything else?”

He snapped out of his thoughts and pulled up his web browser. “One sec.” Maybe there was something in the history? A closed tab, maybe? The last one was...a blog post about how to treat bad burns without going to hospital. “Dammit, Jon,” Martin muttered. “You could’ve just asked me.”

“What?” Basira asked, sounding a lot more frustrated than Martin would like.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Talking to myself.” He reopened the tab and prayed that there was something in the history of it that could help him. The link back to Google Maps split a grin across his face. A few clicks later, and he had an address. Thank _Christ_. “Looks like he’s up in North Acton? I’ll text you the address.”

“Any idea what he’s up to, there?”

“All he said was that he might be onto something? Maybe he found something or someone from a statement.”

“Do you honestly think he’s still doing his _job_ despite all this?”

Martin sighed. “Honestly? Yeah. It’s something he’d do.”

“Does he even know what an archivist is supposed to do?”

“Probably not.” _Ivy would kill him on sight._

“Right. Well, I’ll head there now.”

“I’m coming.”

Basira scoffed. “Like hell. If Daisy catches him, I’ve got to stop her, and I will _not_ have you getting in the way.”

“I can be helpful!” Martin protested. If only she knew.

“You can be ‘helpful’ by going to work and letting me deal with this.”

“But I—!”

“ _No_ , Martin. _Goodbye_.”

Aaaaand she hung up. Martin sat still for a moment, laptop still balanced in his lap. For a moment, he thought it might be nice to chuck it at the wall, but that probably wouldn’t go over very well. He’d be out a laptop, after all, and the landlady would be pissed about the wall.

Instead, he snapped it shut and hopped up to look for his keys and pistol. Basira could try all she wanted to keep him out of it, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try anyway. If Jon died because he didn’t act, he was pretty sure he’d never forgive himself. Didn’t matter that Jon was mortal. It didn’t matter that everything dies eventually. He _needed_ to help Jon.

The keys were nowhere to be found, of course. Did Jon seriously take his car? No, he would’ve said something, _surely_ . In the note, at the very least, he would’ve mentioned swiping the car. He checked his jacket pocket, then his pants from a few days ago. _There_ they were.

Martin might have had to smack Jon if he’d taken his car.

Tugging on his shoes and darting out the door, he swung himself down the stairwell like a monkey on cocaine. Fortunately, it was still incredibly early, so no one came out to see him doing that.

The cool dark night slapped him in the face, and he suddenly remembered that he’d forgotten his coat. Whatever, it was fine. It wasn’t _that_ cold; it was just 5°. He’d be fine.

The parking garage was actually a bit creepier in the dark, but it wasn’t like he was in a bad neighborhood. Still, he kept one hand over his holster; If someone dared to try and jump him down there, they wouldn’t exactly have a great time. Across the pavement, his car sat lonely in its space. He hopped in and started the engine.

He pulled out faster than he would’ve ever dared before his change and set off toward the closest bridge.

* * *

In the end, he didn’t make it in time to do much of anything for Jon. He called Basira a few times after seeing a bloodtrail leading out from the door to the road, but she didn’t pick up.

He...he’d lost him. Was Jon dead? Was this the last he’d see of him—this trail of blood? Was that hastily-written note really his last goodbye?

He turned the car back around, cursing himself in every language he had ever bothered to learn and a few others for good measure. 

How could he be so _stupid_? He’d had _one goal_ , and he’d completely blown it. And now Jon was probably dead. Sure, he could probably go find Jon’s body and bring him back with the power of adding a Mechanism, but Jon probably wouldn’t appreciate becoming immortal. Also, Martin had no way of doing that unless he hunted down Carmilla, which was definitely not happening.

So...that was it. Jon was gone, it was Martin’s fault, and there was nothing he could do anymore.

His heart felt empty. Cold.

Dawn peaked over the cityscape, and while he normally would welcome its light, he wanted nothing more than to plunge back into darkness. Maybe when he got back home, he could drink some unholy proportions of alcohol and convince himself that this day never happened. Just because he’d wake up eventually didn’t mean that he couldn’t pretend just for a little while.

His phone buzzed, and he practically launched himself out of his car. Who the hell was calling him at this hour, and why couldn’t they just let him mourn in peace? When it buzzed again, he glanced down and saw Basira’s name lighting up the screen. This time, he nearly swerved off the road trying to answer it.

“Please tell me you found him!” he shouted.

“That was my ear,” Basira groaned. “And yeah, I did. He’s...mostly fine.”

Martin pulled to the side of the road and rested his head against the wheel. “Thank God.”

“You seem pretty worried for someone I told not to come looking.”

“I…I didn’t listen.”

Basira snorted. “Figures. You should be glad you didn’t get caught there by the police.”

“P-probably.”

She paused for a second, and Martin heard some muffled words on the other end. She came back a moment later. “You wanna talk to Jon?”

His heart jumped. “Y-yes! Yes, of course!”

Her voice muffled again, and there was some shuffling. Then a shaky voice took over. “H-hello?”

His voice was music in his ears. “Jon,” he sighed.

Some shuffling came over the other end. “H-hello Martin.”

“Are you all right?”

He laughed shortly. “I’ve been better.”

“Are you hurt, then?”

“Ah...yeah, a bit. There’s...a lot of the blisters on my hand burst. A-and there’s a cut on my uh...on my neck.”

Martin sucked in a sharp breath.

“But it’s fine, now!” Jon added quickly. “I-it stopped bleeding a few minutes ago.”

“Where are you?”

“I-I’m with Basira. A-and Daisy. We’re um...we’re going to confront Elias.”

“Did Daisy hurt you?”

Jon was silent. Martin ran a hand down his face. “Right. Okay. At least she didn’t kill you. Just...just...I’ll meet you there, okay?”

Jon sighed. “Y-yeah. It’ll take us a bit, anyway.”

“Well I’m still in Acton, so it’ll take me a bit, too.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“...You came after me.”

“Of course I did!” Martin scoffed. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t!?”

“I...I suppose I was just hoping you wouldn’t.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just...promise me you’ll stay out of trouble for, like, an _hour_. All I’m asking.”

“I-I’ll try.”

“Good.”

“You done?” a voice said from Jon’s end. Daisy.

“I um...I think so,” Jon replied. “Yes.”

“Good. Shut up, then.”

“Daisy,” Basira’s voice warned.

“Well excuse me for being sick of his blabbering and apologising!”

The arguing voices muffled slightly. “I-I’ll talk to you later, Martin,” Jon whispered, his voice _far_ too close to the mic, “I promise. I- goodbye.”

Martin let out a long groan and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

The drive to the Institute was entirely uneventful. On one hand, that was fine. On the other, it left him with his thoughts, and he _really_ didn’t want that.

Most thoughts were about what he would say to Jon the moment he saw him again. Of course, there were considerations of asking him out, or at the very least admitting to being interested. Given the current situation, though, he had a pretty strong feeling that that wouldn’t go over all that well. There was also the very strong desire to shout at him a bit and maybe smack him around before hugging him tight and never letting go. Again, probably not a great plan.

And then, of course, there was Daisy to deal with. She’d hurt Jon. She’d taken him, and she’d terrified him, and she’d hurt him. That wasn’t okay. Unfortunately, she was also Basira’s friend, so he probably couldn’t just up and kill her or something without hurting Basira as well. He didn’t exactly want to do that.

Still. Daisy was treading some very, _very_ thin ice. He wasn’t exactly above murder, himself, after all.

“Best to just wait and see what happens,” he muttered himself as he pulled onto the street outside the Institute. Fortunately, there was a spot just a block down. He jumped out of the car, barely remembering to even shut it off, and then ran to the Institute. He stopped at the door and sucked down a heavy breath.

Maybe he should wait outside? He wouldn’t bother Rosie that way, at least. Should he let her know he was there? He should probably warn her at the very least. He cracked the door open and shuffled inside.

“Good morning, Martin!” Rosie called, waving cheerily. “Good to see you back. Are you feeling better?”

He cleared his throat. “I um...yeah? I guess? But um…” He ran a hand down his face; he wasn’t good at this sort of thing. “Look, um...something’s about to happen, and it’s probably best if you leave the front for a bit.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well—”

The door burst open behind him, and despite having honed his reflexes for decades to shoot first and ask questions later, he jumped like a scared cat and whipped around.

It was a good thing he hadn’t gone for his gun, though, because then Jon would probably have a bullet in his head, and Martin was pretty sure he’d never be able to forgive himself.

He looked rough—worse than before. He was covered in dirt and dead leaves. The bandages coating his hand were black with dried blood and had unravelled to such a degree that they weren’t really protecting anything at all. More blood coated the collar of his shirt—the same one he’d been wearing when Martin had gone to get him. The flesh around his neck was bruised and split open, and although blood no longer gushed out of it, it still looked nasty.

He was shaking so badly, Martin was afraid he might fall over right there.

Behind him stepped Basira and Daisy, and Martin felt the rage burn in his stomach. Basira nodded at him, and Daisy glared. He glared right back as he moved toward Jon.

Jon looked up at him with hazy, pain-stricken eyes. Still, determination shone in their depths. “I’m all right,” he said. “I just need to talk to Elias.”

Well, at least he _sounded_ more like himself. Or maybe this was the Jon that liked to pretend he knew what he was doing. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Martin sighed, wishing he could have a bit of privacy with Jon, just so they could _talk_ or something. _Later,_ he told himself. “Come on, then.”

“We know our way there,” Daisy snorted, lips turning up into a sneer.

“Well excuse me if I’d rather not leave my best friend with _you_.”

“Martin,” Jon said, glancing warily at Daisy, “i-it’s all right.”

“It’s really not!”

“If you’re going to lead the way,” Basira groaned, “then just do it. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to.”

Martin made a face somewhere between a fake smile and a grimace. “Right then!”

Up the stairs they went. Jon stayed close behind him, glancing around nervously at the framed pictures of former Institute heads and staff members. Basira was behind him a few steps away, with Daisy bringing up the rear. Her hungry eyes locked onto the back of Jon’s head, and Martin made a silent vow to keep an eye on her. If it could protect Jon, it was worth doing.

As they neared Elias’s office, the energy behind him almost seemed to shift. Jon straightened his back for once, rolled his shoulders, and clenched his fist. His face was set with determination and resolve.

“You’re sure about this?” Martin asked him. “You’re sure it was him?”

Jon’s eyes blazed. “It has to have been. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

“No offense, but you also thought _I’d_ done it.”

“And now I know _why_.”

Martin’s stomach plummeted. What did Jon know? How much? “That’s not exactly…”

“My mind’s clear, now, Martin. I know it was him.”

Martin sighed. “Well, as much as I hope that’s true and he _is_ the one turning our lives into some messed-up supernatural came of Cluedo, I _really_ hope it’s all just unrelated.”

Jon’s eyes locked on his. “It was Elias. I know it was him.”

It was the most certain of himself that he’d sounded in a long time. Martin gulped, prayed for a miracle, and opened the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Martin called as the others filed past him into the office. Elias’s smug expression looked at each of them in turn with a languid grin. _If anyone’s ever looked guilty and proud of it, it’s Elias_ , Martin thought. “Jon’s back! And he’s- well, he’s angry. Actually, he brought—”

Daisy’s wolf-like gaze landed on Elias. “Bouchard.”

Basira placed a hand on her friend’s arm. “Easy,” she warned.

“Hello, Elias,” Jon said, practically looming over the desk despite his small stature.

“Goodness, Jon,” Elias replied, completely ignoring everyone else. “Whatever happened to your hand? And your neck?” He said it like he already knew.

Daisy smirked. “That one was me.”

Elias glanced at her, but focused back on Jon like no one else mattered. “You look a mess.”

Jon ducked his head a bit and crossed his arms, chuckling nervously. “I’ve had a hell of a week.”

Elias smiled and placed his hands on top of the desk, stretching them out toward Jon as if he were hoping to comfort him. Jon didn’t budge; Martin was almost proud of him. “Martin,” Elias said after a beat, shifting his piercing gaze to stare into him, “would you be so good as to fetch Melanie and Tim? I think it would be worth their time to be here.”

He hesitated, glancing at Jon. Jon just nodded at him. “Er, right,” Martin stammered. “Okay. I’ll just…yeah.”

He beat a tactical retreat, but not before giving Jon a supportive squeeze on the shoulder.

 _Tim and Melanie need to know what’s going on, too,_ he thought as he hammered down the stairs. _They deserve to know just as much as the rest of us._

His heart thudded. He’d just left Jon in there. Jon, who was very scared and very vulnerable. What if something happened? What if Daisy went crazy and killed them all? What if Elias bashed all their heads in with another pipe he had lying around? Would he do that? Surely he wouldn’t, right?

He resolved himself to go faster.

“Tim!” he shouted, kicking through the door to the Archives. “Melanie!”

Tim shot up from his desk. “What?” His face was panicked and pale. “Worms? Tunnels? Mannequins!?”

Melanie ran out from behind one of the stacks. “What happened?”

Okay, maybe running in and shouting like that wasn’t the best idea he’d had. “Jon,” he gasped. “Elias’s office. Now.”

Tim’s face oscillated between confusion, fear, and anger, before finally settling on frustration. “Right,” he grimaced. “Wouldn’t want to keep our stalker-murder boss waiting, would we?”

Melanie raised an eyebrow at Tim, but didn’t say anything. That was all Martin saw before he tore back upstairs. _Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay._

As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to worry at all. Jon was fine when he got back. Well... _relatively_ fine, anyway. No new injuries or trauma, it seemed. Tim and Melanie eventually came in behind him, clearly not as eager to get there as he’d been.

“What is it now?” Tim growled.

Melanie glanced at him and backed away to the side a bit—away from him. “Er, yeah, same question, please.”

Jon didn’t take his eyes off Elias. “Elias here is about to confess his crimes,” he spat.

Tim blinked and asked “What?” at the same time that Melanie responded with a simple “Oh.”

She then shot a glance at Martin. “Good?” she asked.

Martin just shrugged.

Elias smirked. “Yes, I was just saying to Jon. It’s very important to me you understand that no action I have taken has been controlled. I have done everything because I wished to.”

Daisy glared at him. “Get to the point.”

“Of course, Detective,” he smirked. “So. For the avoidance of any doubt. I killed Gertrude Robinson because she intended to destroy the Archives. And I killed Jurgen Leitner because he was…an unnecessary complication. Likely to tell Jon too much, too early.

“Bloody hell!” Melanie groaned, exasperated.

Tim said something as well, but Martin couldn’t hear whatever it was over the sound of his reeling mind. “So-so-s-sorry,” he stammered, “that guy was _Jurgen Leitner_?”

“It was,” Elias replied with a grin.

Basira’s brow furrowed. “Daisy, where do I know that name from?”

“Oh, the Yousuf case. _An Introduction to Higher Anatomy_.”

“Ah…Oh, God! And you killed him? You sure we shouldn’t be giving him a medal?”

Jon continued glaring at the man seated before them. “Very sure.”

Why the hell had _Jurgen Leitner_ been in the Archives? Where had he even come from!? Martin shook his head, telling himself that that didn’t matter. What mattered was that there were two bodies. What was one more? “And Sasha?” he asked, almost surprised by the calmness in his voice. “Did you kill her too?”

Jon winced. “Sasha died almost a year ago, Martin.”

“What?”

“God,” Tim muttered.

“When Prentiss attacked,” Jon explained, tearing his eyes off of Elias for a brief moment to meet Martin’s, “something else, i-it…it replaced her. I still don’t know how, but—”

“Goddamn it!” Tim groaned, burying his face in his hands. And Martin remembered just how fond Tim had been of Sasha.

“He’s right, Martin,” Elias said with a smug grin. “The thing you remember as Sasha was nothing like her. It toyed with your memory. If I showed you a picture of the real Sasha now, you’d have no idea who it was.”

Things were starting to fall into place. “So that thing we saw…?”

“Precisely. It finally tried to kill Jon. Then Leitner killed it. Then I killed Leitner. And I believe that brings us up to date. More or less.”

Martin took a deep, shivering breath. Death happened; it caught up to everyone, eventually. It was just a fact of life, even for the Mechanisms. Still. Sasha had been kind to him. How had he not noticed that she wasn’t herself anymore?

And then he recalled the tea incident right after they’d gotten back to the Institute post-Prentiss. That hadn’t been Sasha at all, and he hadn’t even been able to see it.

What a sorry excuse for an immortal, he was.

“What about Michael?” Jon asked, cutting through Martin’s inner, hate-filled voice.

Elias shrugged. “What about him? An irritant. Interfering because he’s bored, and he resents us. He has no purpose—”

Daisy interrupted before he could keep running his mouth by drawing her gun and aiming it at Elias. “Right. That’s enough for me. Even got it on tape. Everyone get back.”

Tim glared at Elias, probably ripping him to shreds with his mind. Melanie let out a cry of disbelief and backed away. Jon flinched away from the detective, backing into Martin. Martin didn’t move; if he were alone with Elias, he’d have drawn his own.

“Daisy, wait,” Basira said, stepping between the pistol’s mouth and Elias.

“Out the way,” Daisy growled.

Melanie piped up behind her, still keeping several feet away. “Now han-hang on, I thought you were about to arrest him.”

“Get out of the way!”

Martin stood there, frozen by fear and indecision. He wanted to kill Elias for this; for framing Jon, for not telling them about Sasha, for being a _smug prick_. He wanted to drag Basira out of Daisy’s way and let the song of gunfire bleed in his ears. But he also wanted to protect the people he’d come to see as friends. He didn’t think they’d take too kindly to him assisting with murder, even if he did it on a semi-regular basis. It wasn’t like they knew about any of that.

On top of that, Jon had been through enough, certainly. And they’d literally just learned that their friend was dead, and no one had even noticed. Only Jon had seemed to truly sense something off about everything, and they’d all played it off as him being overly paranoid—working himself up over nothing.

He should do something. He _needed_ to do s—

The intercom on Elias’s desk buzzed. Daisy glared daggers into him. “Don’t.”

Elias just smiled. “Excuse me.” He pressed the button and answered the call. “Yes?”

Rosie’s voice filtered over the com. “Elias, there are some police officers here to see you?”

“Ah, yes, thank you Rosie. Er, could you ask them to wait a minute or two?”

After what happened earlier in the lobby, and now this, the poor woman _had_ to be thoroughly confused. “Yep, will do,” was all she said.

Elias turned the com back off. “There. That should make it even easier for you. Right, Detective? I know you were planning to kill me, but surely an arrest is a consolation prize?”

Daisy growled, low and intimidating like a feral beast caught up in a trap.

“Daisy?” Basira asked, worry etching her face.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you why she hadn’t gone back to the station?” Elias crooned. She side-glanced her partner, but Daisy kept glaring knives into Elias. “Allow me,” the man continued. “She rightly suspected that I held evidence of various murders she had committed, and that I sent this to her superiors.”

Daisy said nothing.

“She’s quite the killer, your partner. All in the public good, of course. And she was correct, I spent some time acquiring that evidence. Or creating it. And while your superiors don’t much care about the killings, the fact there is proof…they’re not happy. And they want you brought in.”

Daisy sneered, readjusting her grip on her pistol. Her hands were shaking. “Heh. So I kill you, and go to jail. I’ll take that deal.”

Elias scoffed. “For someone who used to be a detective, you’re remarkably reluctant to think things through. You think you’re the only police officer eager to do violence and call it justice? No, there are plenty of other rabid dogs out there, mad with the Hunt. And some of them have signed a Section 31. There are plenty of others your superiors can call on to clean up this mess.”

Basira bit her lip. “They wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Daisy said, face starting to fall further and further. “Yeah, they would.”

“And anyone close enough to be implicated,” Elias said, smiling sweetly. “They will kill Basira.”

Martin had had just about enough of this nonsense. Just because he’d been on the wrong side of the law plenty of times didn’t mean that he didn’t know a thing or two. Corrupt police _existed_ , sure, but she was literally one of them! They almost _never_ turned on one of their own, especially if they were _all_ corrupt! If anything, they’d give her a pat on the back and be happy that Elias was dead, because at least no one would be able to prove that she’d done _more_. “That’s the _police_ that you’re talking about!” he whined, “They wouldn’t…” He caught Daisy’s mournful stare. “Would they?”

Daisy closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Basira,” she whispered.

Basira only murmured back a half-hearted “Yeah.”

Elias snickered, standing from his desk. “If the officers down there take you away…but perhaps I was wrong when I called them. Maybe it was a false alarm.”

Daisy’s eyes shot back open. Her grip on her gun tightened. “What do you want?”

Elias grinned wider and pushed a piece of paper across the desk toward Basira. “Collateral.”

Daisy stared at it in confusion. “That…what?

“A contract of employment. For Basira.”

Basira glanced around the room. “Uh?”

Martin felt his stomach drop out. If she signed, she’d probably be just as stuck as the rest of them by whatever powers lay behind the Institute.

Judging by the paleness of both Jon and Tim, they were clearly thinking the same thing. “Oh no,” Jon muttered.

Elias just chuckled. “Sign it, and I’ll send your ex-colleagues on their way.”

Daisy tried to stop her before she could take up a pen. “Basira, I…”

Tim gripped the edge of the desk with white knuckles, swaying slightly. “Don’t do it.”

Basira set down her pen. “There.”

Jon looked like he might be sick. “Oh damn it,” he whispered.

Elias hummed in approval as he took up the paper and set it inside one of his desk drawers. Then he pressed a key on the com. “False alarm, Rosie,” he said. “Could you apologise to the officers for me, and thank them for their time.”

“Oh. Um. All right…” was Rosie’s response. Elias settled back in his seat and leaned back, observing their collective faces of horror and confusion.

Daisy cocked her head to the side. “So…what, you’re her boss now? Is that supposed to stop me?”

“Yes.”

It was Melanie who pointed out the very obvious. “Um, I mean, she’s still got a gun?”

“Ah, of course,” Elias chuckled. “Sometimes I forget how new you all are to this.” He leaned back in his chair and spread his arms out in a grand gesture. “Basira is now tied to the Institute. All of you are. Like fingers on a hand. And I am the beating heart of it. Should I, or the Institute, be destroyed, you will all, unfortunately, follow suit.”

“Wait,” Melanie said, eyes blowing wide, “what!?”

“Yup, that sounds about right,” Tim grumbled into his hands.

“And,” Elias added, “it would not be a pleasant death.”

Daisy’s eyes blazed with fury. “Bullshit!” she hissed.

The skin around Elias’s bright eyes crinkled with his disgusting smile. “Then shoot me. Just squeeze the trigger, and watch the only person you care about die screaming. Your last connection to humanity.”

Daisy hesitated. Martin grabbed Jon’s shaking hand and held it tight. _Please don’t,_ he begged. _Don’t kill everyone I care about._

Elias’s expression never changed. “Do it.”

Even Basira looked worried now. She reached out a hand toward Daisy’s arm. “Daisy…,” she whispered.

Finally, _finally_ , Daisy sighed and lowered her gun. Everyone else let out their own sigh, relieved.

“What do you want?” Daisy growled, holstering her weapon.

“The police are not the only ones who can find a use for your violence,” Elias replied nonchalantly, as if he _weren’t_ arranging a no-win blackmail scenario. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty here for you to do. Feel free to go where you like in the meantime. I’ll be in touch.”

“You piece of—”

Basira’s hand tightened on Daisy’s hand. “Daisy, it’s…it’s okay. We’ll figure something out.”

Melanie let out a short, disbelieving laugh. Her face was pale. “This is insane!”

“You get used to it,” Tim muttered, stalking out the door without another word. Martin watched him go, and it _hurt_. In Tim’s mind...this was it—this was all he had left. A job he’d been forcibly tied to by no fault of his own, surrounded by supernatural horrors that preyed on him and everyone around him.

Martin shuddered. Would he feel it if Elias died, or would he have to watch as the people he’d come to care about suffered? 

Elias steepled his hands, looking rather pleased with himself. “Now that that’s taken care of, if you’ll all give me and Jon a moment alone. I’m sure we have some things to discuss.”

Martin hesitated as the others filed out. Jon still looked afraid. Would Elias kill him?

No, no he probably wouldn’t. Martin gave his hand another squeeze, then closed the door behind him. Then he stood beside the door and focused on breathing as he listened to the soft voices on the other side.

* * *

“Like hell,” Martin spluttered, crossing his arms firmly over his chest as if it would make him look tougher. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? The police’d probably pick you up the moment they see you!”

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon replied dryly. “I wasn’t aware just how shit I looked.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Martin groaned.

“And _you_ know that it’s _exactly_ what you meant.”

He threw his hands in the air. “Okay! Yes! Fine! You look horrible! Please let me help you!”

Jon’s sarcastic sneer fell, and he stared at the floor. “You don’t have to do that, Martin. Georgie’s got a car, and she’ll probably be able to get me in the morning.”

“Implying you need somewhere to stay _tonight_.”

Jon shrugged. “The cot in the Archive is fine.”

“Well then!” Martin plopped down onto the couch behind him. “Guess I’ll sleep here in the breakroom, because there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you on your own.”

“Martin, I—”

“We’re not arguing about this, Jon! You were _literally kidnapped_ today, and you almost _died_! I thought for sure you’d been mur—!”

“I _know_!” Jon cried. His breathing hitched, and he doubled over as if he were in sudden pain. “I-I-I can’t- ‘m not- _Christ_ , I—”

Martin leapt off the sofa, and slammed the breakroom door shut so no one could watch before turning back to Jon. Jon, who was now covering his mouth with his one good hand while tears flowed freely from his eyes. His entire body swayed like a blade of grass in the Scottish bluffs. His teeth clattered together uncontrollably.

Apologies tumbled out of his mouth as he quickly crossed the space between them, wrapping his arms around the small, quaking form. “ _Shit_ , Jon! I’m sorry—God, I’m _so_ sorry.”

Jon jerked away out of Martin’s grasp, falling backwards onto the couch before sliding down to the floor in a shivering ball.

Remembering back to the other night in his flat, Martin knelt down in front of him, dutifully not touching or trapping him. “It’s okay, Jon. I-it’s okay. You’re safe now. It’s just the two of us here. No one can hurt you while I’m here.”

And he meant it. He meant it so much that his heart _burned_ with it. ‘ _I love you_ ’ , he wanted to say. But he couldn’t—not yet. Jon didn’t need _more_ to deal with right now.

Besides, it wasn’t like Martin could _actually_ be in love with Jon. He just had an overabundant amount of fondness for him—just an occasionally overwhelming infatuation for him. His feelings for Jon were no more ‘love’ than Marius’s had been for Lyfrassir Edda.

He vaguely wondered how Lyf was doing these days, but shook the thoughts away so he could focus on the problem at hand.

“It’s going to be all right, Jon,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I said all that. Just because I’m worried doesn’t excuse upsetting you about it more. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He just wanted to reach out—to comfort him and hold him until the tears dried away and he felt _safe_. But he couldn’t do that without upsetting Jon further, so he resigned himself to sit back and keep a vigil over him until the panic died down and Jon actually gave him some sort of instruction on how to help.

 _I could make tea_ , he thought briefly. But that was stupid, really. Jon needed someone near him (at least, he assumed he did), and getting up to make tea would feel like abandoning him. _But it does always seem to help him._

“Would tea help?” he asked quietly. “Just tell me what I can do.”

Jon sucked in a sharp, shaking breath. Then he nodded. “Please,” he whispered.

Martin didn’t need to be asked twice, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a bit hesitant as he got to his feet. _You’re still going to be in the same room as him, idiot. It’s not like he’s going to up and disappear the moment you take your eyes off him._

He choked down the needling voice and the burning in his soul and turned away to grab some tea down from one of the cupboards. Jon stayed still with his eyes closed, occasionally letting out a whimpering sigh.

When the tea was ready, Martin returned to Jon’s side and set a steaming mug on the floor next to him. At first, Jon didn’t react at all. Then he let out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle and grasped the mug. “Thank you,” he said.

Martin pursed his lips and took a sip of his own tea. “I’m sorry, Jon. I really am.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

“But I still did it.”

Jon sighed. “At least you apologised.”

Martin gave a sigh of his own. He wanted to reach out and take Jon’s hand—maybe hold him reassuringly. Instead, he settled for more useless words. “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

“I…” Jon shuddered. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be on my own. Not after...after _that_.”

“Agreed, but that doesn’t mean you want me to stay.”

Jon finally looked up at him. His green eyes glittered like a moonlit ocean. “Who else would?” he asked. “Tim hates me, Melanie isn’t that close, Sasha’s _gone_ , Georgie has no idea where I am, and Basira’s busy keeping Daisy out of trouble—not that she likes me all that much anyway. You…” He let out a clipped laugh. “You’re the only person that’s ever been willing to put up with me.”

“Okay, _first of all_ —”

“Martin—”

“—Tim doesn’t hate you, he hates the _situation_ and he’s taking it out on you. Very different. _Secondly_ , you _really_ need to give Georgie a call before she hunts you down herself.”

“I...yeah. Yeah, I do need to do that.”

Martin handed him his phone. "Here," he said, softer now. "Call her now, then you can decide if you want to stay here or if you'd rather head back to mine."

"A-are you sure that's all right?" Jon asked, his voice shaking. "I mean I...I _abandoned_ you, and—"

"But you're okay now, and honestly, you're a bit justified in running off like that," Martin chuckled. "I mean, I left you and Tim behind back when Prentiss attacked, so let's just call us even, yeah?"

"I…right..."

Martin sighed. "I just want to help you be safe. Is that okay? You don't have to tell me everything that's going on, but I want to help. That's...it's what friends _do_ ; they look out for each other."

"Right...just- just being a-a good _friend_." Jon bit his lip, almost like he was hoping to say more but didn't know the words for it. Martin tried not to imagine too hard about how those nibbles would feel on his lips instead. "Thank you, Martin," Jon said, finally looking away and taking the phone from his outstretched hand. "Really, I...thank you."

Martin let himself smile, wishing he had more than just this—just a good friend. "Of course, Jon. Of course."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this is the first chapter where anyone has gone off-script! And even then, it's only _very_ slight. :D
> 
> I don't currently have anymore chapters finished, so this is going to go onto an update schedule of When I Finish The Chapter. If I wind up with more than one, it'll be biweekly like it has been for a bit. Sorry to leave you on such a disatisfying note, but I still have every intention of finishing this, and still have plenty of plans for it! Might even write a sequel if I feel like it.
> 
> Anyway, have a lovely Spooktober!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) at @TheRealAndian!


	14. Trial by Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at schedule* What do you _mean_ 'I got the chapter done in time and also added 5 more??'
> 
> Apparently taking away the necessity of posting on a regular schedule equates to less stress over it which actually enables me to write lmao. I'm literally writing the last chapter for s3, but here we are just now getting Jon back from interrogating Elias for the first time! :o
> 
> No CWs for this one, unless you've got something against nightmares. Although if that's the case, probably fics for TMA and the Mechs aren't the best for you to be reading, seeing as Eldritch Horror™ is a thing.

Jon wound up calling Georgie in the car on the way to Martin’s flat, and it was all Martin could do to focus on the roads and not on the distressed man in his passenger seat being yelled at over a tiny phone speaker.

“Y-yes, Georgie. Yes, I am aware. I’m sor—”

Incoherent yelling interrupted him. Martin cringed and turned on his blinker so he could make the next turn.

“No I- well, okay, yes I-I suppose when you put it that way…”

More shouting. Jon held the phone away from his face, pouting.

“It’s not like I get a _redo_ on this, Georgie. It’s too late to change anything, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you—you don’t deserve that after all you’ve done for me.”

This time, the voice sounded a bit calmer. Martin picked up a few words here and there as he made the turn. Words like ‘help’, ‘friends’, and ‘trust’.

“You’re right,” Jon sighed. “I should’ve said something. I’m sorry.”

There was a pause.

“Oh! R-right, I um- I’m staying with Martin for the night...yes...I’ll ask Melanie if she can give me a ride there tomorrow… Y-yes…? ...No, that’s not necessary...” Jon groaned and rolled his eyes while his face flushed. “Thank you for the reminder,” he said dryly. He shot a look to Martin, who tried to make his sudden burst of envy as little noticeable as he could. It wasn’t _his_ fault he couldn’t hear the conversation, and it wasn’t _his_ fault that it sounded like she was flirting over the phone. They _had_ dated before, anyway. He might have resigned himself to never getting to be with Jon, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel like he ought to anyway.

“Shut up, Georgie,” Jon moaned, glaring out the window. A moment passed. “Yes, I promise. I’ll tell you everything.” Another eyeroll. “Yes, drinks will be on me. Of course they will… Of course. I’ll do my best. Thank you, Georgie.”

The phone gave a little beep as the call ended. Jon groaned and leaned back into his seat.

“I take it she wasn’t thrilled?” Martin asked, hoping he could at least learn _something_ about Georgie’s side of things.

“I fully expect to be slapped tomorrow.”

Martin snickered. “Well that’s not very nice.”

“But I deserve it.”

“Maybe a bit.”

There was a beat of silence. Then; “Martin, are- are you mad at me?”

Martin blinked, and almost forgot to pay attention to the road. “No? Should I be?”

“It’s just that I...well, I did the same thing to you that I did to her? I guess I just...it seems odd that...that you’re not.”

Martin sighed. “I’m not _angry_ , Jon. I’m _upset_ , but I also know that I would’ve tried to stop you, and you didn’t want to hurt me by doing that.”

Jon stared at him. “I just...I feel awful about it.”

“Good,” Martin smirked. “Character development, right there.”

“Oh good Lord.”

They passed over the bridge and into Stockwell. “If something else comes up,” Martin said, “and you have to leave like that again, just...just promise me you’ll be safe.”

“...I can’t.”

“Then at least promise me you’ll...contact me somehow. Doesn’t even have to be _me_ , really. Just someone so we know you’re alive.” _I don’t want to lose you._

“I’ll try. I promise.”

Martin turned down a street and glanced around for a place to park. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered.

Jon rubbed at his throat, messing with the bandage Martin had managed to put over it. “Me too.”

He parked the car, and Jon followed him up to the flat. His feet dragged with every step, and despite it not being awfully late, he looked miserably exhausted. His eyelids drooped the moment he plopped onto Martin’s couch while Martin made sure the door was locked.

“You have no idea how much I appreciate this,” Jon murmured sleepily.

“It’s what friends are for,” Martin replied, settling next to him.

“Mmm.” Jon slumped against him, and Martin was rather afraid he’d fall asleep on top of him again.

“Let’s get you in bed, yeah?”

Jon blinked, sat up quickly like he’d suddenly remembered whom he was with. “Right! Right, I can, um...I can just sleep on the couch. I already stole your bed the other night. A-and last night.”

Martin chuckled, remembering just how adorable Jon had looked curled up in the bed. Then blushed when he remembered just how much he’d wanted to join him. “Well I’m not really tired yet, and I don’t feel like accidentally waking you up while you’re on the couch. It’s only seven.”

“I...fine. O-only if you’re sure.”

“‘Course I’m sure.”

Jon rose unsteadily to his feet, then padded toward the bedroom. He turned back as he opened the door. “Thank you. Really.”

Martin smiled at that wonderful, caring man. “You’re welcome.”

Then the door closed, and Martin waited until he couldn’t hear Jon moving around inside anymore. Then he leaned back against the back of the couch and _groaned_. He could really go for a drink right about now, and the only thing stopping him was the knowledge that he’d probably drink far more than was healthy. It wasn’t like he could just reveal what he was to some whom he, unfortunately, had fallen for rather hard.

What was he supposed to do now, anyway? He couldn’t leave the Institute apparently, so how the hell was he supposed to rejoin the crew when he was done here? And what about the others he was trapped with? On top of that, he was, once again, getting caught up in actual real eldritch horrors.

“ _Seriously_ ,” he muttered. It was like the universe had decided all on its own that it hated _him specifically_ , and would make his life miserable at every turn.

_‘Least I have Jon._

Except...he _didn’t_ , because he was a bloody _coward_ who was more afraid of asking the man out than he was of the things he read about in the statements.

God, he was such a mess.

He laid down on the couch, suddenly exhausted by all the revelations of the day. Elias probably knew about everything—what he was and all that. It’d honestly be more surprising if he _didn’t_. And Jon had mentioned something about monstrous entities that held power over fear itself? And also they just so happened to serve one through the Institute. _Figures_ , he thought bitterly. _Not like I just got out of Yog-Sothoth and wanted a bit of peace for once or anything._

But nothing could be done, now. Even if he went and put a bullet in Elias’s head, he couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t hurt the others. He didn’t want to lose them so soon.

He really was just a selfish bastard, wasn’t he?

He groaned again and threw his arm over his eyes, blocking out the gentle fluorescent light. Maybe he should try and sleep after all.

* * *

There was a sound at his front door. Not just a knock. Something crashed inside. There was someone shouting.

 _This is it_ , Martin thought with a breaking heart. _She’s going to finish me off. I’m going to die._

He wrapped his blankets around him tighter and stared blankly at the door. Any moment now, Carmilla would come, and she would kill him. Why had she even bothered getting rid of him in the first place after she’d done...all that? Pulled him apart and sewn him back together with metal and wire and numb terror?

Gunfire rang through his flat, and Martin winced. Carmilla hadn’t seemed the type, but he supposed it would make sense. Quick and easy, anyway. Leave him broken and bleeding out. Maybe call some council in and tell them he was an alien or something. He certainly wasn’t _human_ anymore, was he?

Someone shouted something. A male-sounding voice. Did Carmilla have accomplices? Were there other people she worked with to do what she did? Or maybe there were others like him who’d been moulded into something completely new…

“In here!” a cheery, high-pitched voice called. The knob on his bedroom door rattled, then broke as someone shot away the lock. Martin flinched at the piercing sound, but didn’t move from the corner where he shook with terror.

A wild man kicked his way inside, lightning-accented eyes darting around before landing on Martin. His hand held an old-fashioned pistol, and a pair of goggles rested on his ginger-brown hair. Whatever expression he’d held before bursting inside quickly fell into something furious and terrifying. “You’re not Nastya!” he spat.

Then he fired, and Martin felt nothing.

* * *

He woke with a start.

 _Christ_ , he thought; he hadn’t had that dream in...well, it’d certainly been a long time, anyway. _Jonny really didn’t make a very good first impression, did he?_

He was still in his flat. Of course he was. It wasn’t like he’d be anywhere else. Just lying on the sofa at two in the morning, fully clothed, and the man he had a crush on in his bedroom.

Martin sighed and let himself get up. After stopping into the loo, he wandered into his tiny kitchen. He wasn’t really hungry, but tea sounded pretty damn good right then.

He pulled down the kettle and a mug, then started the water. A quiet shuffling behind him jolted him out of his muscle memory routine, but he relaxed when he saw that it was just Jon.

He was all wrapped up in blankets, not unlike Martin had been in his dream-past. And since those blankets were actually Martin-sized while Jon was almost an entire foot shorter, he mostly just looked like a pile of blankets with an adorable sleepy face. Martin felt his cheeks start to blush.

“Jon, it’s 2am. What are you doing up?”

Jon peered up at him with drowsy eyes. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbled, collapsing into a chair.

Martin hummed an agreement and pulled down another mug from the cupboard. “How’s the hand?”

“Hurts.”

“Go get some painkillers. I’m making tea.”

Jon grunted, and Martin heard the swishing of the blankets. _Wonder if he’d let me in with him…_

He immediately shot that thought away and turned back to the kettle that was starting to whistle. The bright noise cut through anymore of his overly-romantic thoughts toward Jon. _I am_ not _going to make this more awkward. He is my_ friend _and that is_ it _! He doesn’t_ want _to be any more than that, and you know it._

When Jon came back and slumped back into the chair, though, that train of thought became much harder to keep at bay.

_Sushi roll man._

_Shut up._

_Cute burrito._

_Shut up._

_Tea’s done._

_Sh- oh._

He shook away his thoughts and handed Jon his mug. “Thank you, Martin,” Jon murmured, taking a small sip. His shoulders visibly relaxed.

“‘Course.” Martin took the seat across from him and tried to hide the flush in his face. Thankfully, he hadn’t bothered to turn the lights on, so the dim street lamps below were the only illumination available. Besides, Jon seemed half-asleep anyway. Nothing to worry about.

They sipped their tea in the peaceful quiet, both too tired to really bother trying to strike up a conversation. But of course, the tea ran out eventually. Martin was honestly surprised when Jon was the first of them to speak.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep,” he whispered.

Martin grimaced; he sounded so exhausted. “Nightmare?”

“Mm. Don’t honestly remember the last time I slept without one.”

“I know the feeling.”

They sat there silently for another moment. _I want to hold him_ , Martin thought. But he couldn't, could he? Even if there was the _slightest_ chance that Jon had similar feelings toward Martin, it wouldn't be fair to him. Martin was an immortal space pirate. Jon was just a man. Eldritch-touched, perhaps, but still only mortal.

It didn't prevent the ache, though.

He glanced toward the couch. "Telly?" he asked, just as Jon opened his mouth to say "Martin?"

They stared at one another across the table for a moment before Martin began to giggle. Jon joined him, and his laugh was so _beautiful_. Had it always been that way? When was the last time that Jon had genuinely enjoyed something?

"Sorry," Jon murmured. "Yes, telly's a good idea."

"Something to distract us with," Martin agreed. "Were you going to ask me something?"

Jon's gaze shot up from the table like a deer caught in headlights. "Nn- It's fine. Nothing i-important. It can wait."

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Jon replied, clearing his throat.

“If you say so,” Martin shrugged. It wasn’t the first time Jon had refused to tell him something. As long as it wasn’t life-threatening, then Martin would survive for the time being.

He plopped down onto the couch, and Jon—still wrapped in a pile of blankets—sat down close beside him. Martin could feel the warmth emanating from Jon’s body, and it made him shiver with the need to be _closer_. How long had it been since he’d been so close to someone as Jon? Sure, he’d hugged some of his coworkers before (and Jon, of course), and he’d even slept in the same bed as most of the crew, regardless of personal attractions or lack thereof. And yet, somehow this felt like something _more_.

“Cold?” Jon asked, his lazy green gaze resting on Martin’s eyes. He unwrapped himself just a bit and offered the other half of the blankets to Martin.

Part of him knew he shouldn’t. The other part of him didn’t care. So what if he was letting himself get a bit too close to a mortal? It wasn’t like romance with any of his crewmates had ever gone well. And Jon...Jon was lovely.

 _It’s not like that_ , he chided himself, even as he slipped into the blanket wrap with Jon. _Even if these feelings are romantic, Jon probably doesn’t feel that way. He’s never once seemed interested in you that way. You’re just friends._

Even as he knew it was true, it didn’t stop him from casually wrapping one arm around Jon’s waist and leaning them back into the softness of the sofa. Jon leaned sleepily into Martin’s side, weary eyes trying to figure out the buttons on the remote. He wasn’t having much luck, but Martin was too busy trying to refrain from breathing too heavily and accidentally pushing Jon off of him. 

It took Jon a few minutes to finally figure out the remote, but they eventually settled on watching reruns of Britain’s Got Talent. It was certainly better than some of the _other_ things on so late at night. Once, a long time ago, back before his change and lifetimes of existence had left him nothing like the man he’d once been, he’d dreamed of being on one of those reality shows like that. He would’ve loved to make it on BGT, but he never really was much of a singer. He was better _now_ , at least, and he could play a couple of instruments with true mediocrity, but he was certainly no pro.

Looking back, things had been a lot easier before he’d become immortal, hadn’t they?

“I used to love this show,” Jon murmured softly. “I always wanted to be on it someday.”

Martin tightened his arm around Jon. “Yeah? Me too.”

“You probably could’ve.”

Martin shot him a glance, but Jon wasn’t even looking at him. “Why’s that?”

“You were in a band.”

“Yeah, but I never really did much.”

“You said you could play the flute!” Jon snorted, indignant.

Martin shrugged. “I can, a bit. Ivy’s better at that stuff, though.”

Jon hummed. “Tell me about them.”

“Hmm?”

“I...I’d like to know about them, if that’s all right. Your band.”

Martin chuckled nervously. He was _way_ too tired to deal with this. “What do you want to know?”

“What they’re like?” Jon said. “I mean, I only listened to the one album the other day, but it seems...they seem like fascinating people.”

“They’re something, all right,” Martin snickered. “I’ve probably got an old recording of introductions during one of the songs lying around somewhere, if you want to listen to that?”

“I want to hear what they’re like from you.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Well...there’s Jonny. He’s sort of our lead singer.” He paused; how much could he tell without revealing himself? “He’s a prick, but he’s lovable in his own right. We got off to a pretty nasty start, but things got better.”

Jon shifted to stare up at him. “What happened?”

“He um…he was drunk,” Martin said slowly. “Started screaming. Brian and Tim had to um…calm him down. Sort of how I met them all, really.”

“That sounds unpleasant,” Jon pouted.

Martin chuckled. “It was. One of the others had recently um...left? Jonny didn’t take it well.”

“Oh...did they ever find them?”

“No,” Martin sighed. “No, we never did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“S’all right; I never met her, anyway.”

“Right,” Jon murmured, snuggling his face against Martin’s chest. Hopefully he couldn’t feel his pounding heartbeat. “It's funny that you’ve got other mates named Jonny and Tim.”

“Believe me, the irony is _not_ lost on me.”

Jon’s unmarked hand twisted into Martin’s jumper, leaving Martin’s heart to start doing somersaults. “So what about the others?”

 _Relax, Martin. This is fine. Everything is fine._ “Well, there’s Brian. We hit it off pretty well. He’s the one that kind of got me to hang out more with the others.” He glanced at his phone sitting on the table in front of the couch. “I should probably call him, honestly. It’s been a while.”

“When did you last talk to any of them?”

Martin hummed. “Honestly not sure. Maybe a couple years?”

Jon looked up at him again, eyes wide with concern. “Aren’t they your friends?”

“‘Course they are!” Martin chuckled. “Hell, we’re basically family!”

“But you don’t talk to them…”

“Things happen, Jon.”

“Still…”

“Yeah. You’re right,” he admitted. Friends and family usually spoke to one another somewhat regularly, but Martin hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d returned to London. Of course, he’d had plenty of decades to talk to them, and he’d have thousands more. One or two years didn’t really seem like much to him, but to Jon? To Jon, that was a somewhat sizable chunk of his lifespan. “Just haven’t really felt like it, is all.”

There was silence for a moment, broken only by their breathing and the pounding in Martin’s chest. Then Jon moved, turning out of Martin’s grasp and sitting up to face him. “Martin, are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

That faint buzz in the back of his skull returned, just as it had when Jon had asked him a question a few days ago. “Not really, no,” he said. He blinked. “Wait, sorry, what?”

Jon backed away. “Shit, Martin, I-I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean t-to—”

“Wait, did you just compel me to answer?”

Jon sighed a bit shakily. “I-I think so, yes. I’m sorry.”

Martin chuckled. “Should’ve used that on Elias.”

Jon’s shoulders hunched in defeat. “I did. He seemed to enjoy it.”

“Oh...ew.”

“...Yeah.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then, “Martin?”

“Mm?”

“You...you don’t have to tell me everything that’s wrong. I-I mean...good Lord, today’s been a mess! But um...I’m...I’m here if you need to talk to someone.”

Martin stared at him, and saw the sincerity shining in Jon’s eyes. He felt warm, and smiled. “Thank you, Jon,” he whispered.

Jon seemed to relax a bit. “Of course, Martin. I should think I’d owe you this much, anyway.”

After another moment, Jon crawled back into the blankets and settled against Martin again. This time, his warmth seemed to seep into Martin’s bones, sending into a lovely half-conscious state of bliss as the man he so desperately wanted to love did his best to be some form of comfort.

Maybe it couldn’t last, but it was something. It was...honestly better than things had been for awhile, anyway. When was the last time that someone had wanted to be near him like this? It must have been before the Bifrost, anyway. And the last time it’d felt good was when he was with Marius—and that was before Hereward had happened centuries ago.

Martin wrapped his arm around Jon’s waist again and leaned against him, eliciting a small, contented sigh from Jon as they snuggled against each other. It’d been a long time since Martin had cuddled with anyone. This was...a very nice change of pace.

No, it couldn’t last, but that was okay. He could at least enjoy what he had for now. He would tell Jon his secrets someday, but for now, smothered by the warmth of someone so familiar and close despite the horrors that lurked beyond lives so fragile, he was happy. He wouldn’t ruin it for the world. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mahtin, Mahtin. Poor boy can't seem to stop yearning.
> 
> I wonder what Georgie said to Jon...  
> I wonder what Jon was going to ask Martin.
> 
> I wonder if these two idiots are ever going to kiss.


	15. Frankenstein

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder how Martin became a Mechanism in the first place?
> 
> CW: discussions of terminal illness, depression and acceptance of death, non-consensual surgery (Dr. Carmilla doing her Thing™)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know, nor have I ever known, anyone with ALS. My research comes from studying up on Stephen Hawking (who wasn't yet dead at the time this scene takes place), as well as reading blog posts by people who have chronic illnesses. If you feel like I've misrepresented something, please let me know and I will do my best to fix it.

“Martin, could I talk to you for a moment in my office?”

Martin looked up from his desk. It’s been a couple weeks since Jon’s return, and things in the Archives had been... _tense_ , to say the least. Tim had made himself pretty scarce as of late, Melanie was slowly learning, and Basira was just...sort of there? She seemed to mostly keep to herself, anyway. At least Daisy was nowhere to be seen—especially not where Martin might catch her alone. The wound on Jon’s throat had healed okay, but it had left one _nasty_ scar.

Sometimes it felt like Jon and Martin were the only ones there trying to stop this world-ending apocalypse that they appeared to be threatened by, now.

“Sure,” Martin said, standing up. “What’s up?”

Jon glanced at Melanie, who was raising her eyebrows in a not-so-subtly suggestive manner. “I erm...I just need to talk to you. There was a statement.”

Martin smacked Melanie lightly on the shoulder. “Right behind you, then.”

Jon cleared his throat. “G-good.”

They still hadn’t talked about that night together. It seemed like an unspoken agreement had been struck that they wouldn’t, despite both of them having woken up warm and deliciously close to one another. Maybe Martin had let himself be a bit _too_ loose? Maybe Jon felt uncomfortable with someone who so obviously had a crush on him?

...Whatever. It...it didn’t matter. They would get there eventually, even if it took the apocalypse for it to happen. Of course, if the apocalypse struck in the way that Elias had suggested, there might not be enough of anyone left to talk at all. At least, there probably wouldn’t be enough left of Jon, even if Martin made it out okay.

Assuming he _did_ make it out, of course.

“Close the door, please?” Jon said, sliding into his chair. Worry lines carved into his face like canyons.

Martin did, of course. “What’s wrong?” he asked, settling himself across from Jon.

“I um...there was a statement giver that came in just a bit ago. Basira let him in.”

“...Okay?” What did this have to do with him?

“His statement was...it was about _you_.”

Martin blinked. “ _Me_?”

Jon fidgeted with a pen, twirling it in the still-nimble fingers of his unmarked hand. “Y-yes. He said he used to be your doctor.”

His stomach plummeted. _He knows._

“He said that...that you were sick,” Jon muttered. “T-terminally. That you should be in a wheelchair at best. Certainly not...not walking around apparently perfectly fine, anyway.”

Martin cleared his throat. “O-okay?” _Shitshitshitshitshit—_

“Is that true?”

His skull vibrated with the power in Jon’s voice, and he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “Not anymore.”

Jon stared at him, his eyes nervous but glimmering with an almost _hungry_ light to them. “Not...anymore...?”

There was nothing he could do; he had to tell Jon. He _deserved_ to know, of course, but still. There’d been some hope for a bit there that he could keep up the charade for just a bit longer. Maybe after they talked about that night spent cuddling on his sofa. Maybe after Martin finally admitted how he felt.

But it was already far too late for that, wasn’t it?

He glanced at the tape recorder. It was already on. Had Jon already flicked the switch? Or had it done that on its own? Did it matter?

Martin sighed, defeated. “I um...I guess I’ll give you a statement. I…” he took a shuddering breath. “Just promise me that you won’t tell anyone. And that the tape stays with you. Both his and mine.”

Jon tilted his head. “I...all right…" He cleared his throat. "Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding his...illness."

Martin rubbed his eyes. He’d never told anyone his full story, had he? The crew knew bits and pieces of course, but no one really _knew_. Maybe it’d be nice to...to get it all out. 

“Dr. Shy was the one who first diagnosed me um...a few years ago? I can’t really say how long it’s been. He figured out that I inherited the same thing my mum’s been suffering from for awhile just...a lot worse. ALS. Y’know, the thing that Stephen Hawking has? That...I had that.

“He told me I’d probably be dead by the time I hit 30. My mum’s in her mid-60s and’s lived a lot longer than some people who’ve got it, but...mine was earlier onset, so...short end of the stick, I guess.

“He did what he could—helped me start getting things in order. Those painkillers I gave you for your hand? They were to...to help with the pain. I mean, my nerves were literally dying. Constantly. It’s...it’s not really pleasant. I used to need a cane sometimes, actually. Figured I’d be in a wheelchair after about a year, to be honest.

“Thing is, I still had to take care of my mum, didn’t I? I mean, I’m not exactly a scientific genius or something, so I didn’t have a whole lot to offer. The Institute pays well enough, and they have an okay life insurance. If my mum outlived me, I figured that would be enough to get her through so she could be comfortable.

“I tried to keep it a secret, y’know? It’s not...I didn’t want people to know that I was dying. That my body was literally killing itself. I just...I didn’t want people to worry. Pulled away from any friends I had, all that. Sure, I still talked to people, just not as often. Never told them. Even tried to pretend I was fine. Hell, I usually left my cane at home and downed enough pills to keep it all at bay so no one would start worrying. I think Tim noticed, but things um...things changed.

“When I met Carmilla, I thought she might be able to actually help me. She’s a doctor, you see, and she worked at the same hospital I usually went to. She and I got to talking, and she told me that there was some experimental…‘medication’ that might’ve been able to save me, or at least prolong my life for a while longer. Of course I jumped on it. Who wouldn’t?

“She made me sign a bunch of papers, NDAs, stuff like that. It was all very official. She said she’d have everything in order within a couple weeks, and then we could go through with it. I figured, worst case scenario, I die and my mum gets the life insurance payout. Not that I _wanted_ to die, of course, I just...I didn’t see any other options. I mean, when you have a terminal disease, you don’t really have a lot of options?

“So we set the date, and when it came around, I headed to the hospital. I actually ran into Carmilla on the way to the Tube, and she offered to give me a ride instead. I…wasn’t really feeling well, so I jumped on it. I didn’t really expect her to...well, I think she used chloroform, actually, but I can’t be sure. The next thing I knew, I was on an operating table and...and she was messing around with some little metal wires off on a counter.”

Martin paused, finally taking a breath. This was harder than he’d expected but...getting it all off his chest really _did_ feel nice. If only the tale weren’t so...gruesome. “She cut me open. I don’t even think she realised I was awake. Or that I could feel it. Not at first, anyway. She’d already carved half my chest open by the time I was able to scream.

“She...she stopped, but then she injected me with something that...it made me paralysed, but I could still feel it. I don’t know why she didn’t knock me out. Or just kill me. She _smiled_ at me! Told me it would only hurt for a little while.

“When she finally decided I was sufficiently gutted like a fish, she started...started pulling out every nerve I had. All of them. I don’t know how she knew where they all were or how to get to them, but she did. She must’ve had a scan of me or something—she _is_ a genius. She started to...replace them with the wires I’d seen her messing with before. They sort of...they almost glowed, like they were covered in some kind of fluorescent paint or something.

"Eventually I passed out. Or maybe I died. Guess it doesn't really matter, does it? I woke up back at my flat. She’d patched me all up, and you couldn’t even tell I’d been operated on in the first place. It was like she was some sort of Frankenstein and I was the poor sod that got to be the monster, really.

At first, though, after I woke up, I thought it might've all been a horrible dream but...the pain was just... _gone_. It'd been such a long time that I didn't even recognise that's what it _was_ at first.

"I didn't even believe it at first, y'know? The whole experience had been frankly _horrible_ so...I figured there was no way she'd actually _cured_ me or something. And quite frankly, I _was_ right—she didn't cure me. Just made me regenerate faster than I can fall apart, if that makes any sense. After a bit I...I came back here, got moved to the Archives, and the rest is...well, it's history, I guess.

"So...yeah. Statement, um...statement ends."

For a long, bitter time, there was silence. Jon stared at him, eyes wide. What was he thinking? Was he realising now that he'd cuddled up to a literal freak of nature that shouldn't exist? Was he disgusted? Did he hate him now?

The tape kept running.

Martin blinked up at Jon, a thin tear trickling down his cheek with the movement. When had he started crying? Was it while he started to remember it all? The pain, the fear? Or was it because Jon knew now what he was, and there was nothing he could do about it?

"Martin, I...I'm so sorry. I-I had no idea…"

If he tried to open his mouth, all he would manage would be a sob, so instead, Martin simply nodded and wiped away the tears. God, it’d been literal _centuries_ since that day. Why did it feel so new?

Slowly, Jon pulled himself from his chair and glided around the desk to stand beside Martin. He rested a gentle hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a hug and bending his body around Martin’s.

Surely this couldn’t be real. Surely Jon should be running away from something so awful as Martin. He hadn’t even explained about the Mechanisms, sure, but that didn’t mean anything; Martin _literally_ wasn’t human! So why...why would Jon want to be anywhere near him?

Martin reached up a trembling hand, and when it came into contact with Jon’s jumper, he grasped tightly to it like a lifeline, pulling himself closer to Jon and burying his face into the other man’s chest. Jon in turn clutched him tighter.

The tape clicked off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Was this what we were expecting?  
> Regardless of any expectations, of course, I can't help but wonder what the Circus is up to right about now... :)
> 
> Follow me over on Tumblr at [@therealandian](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) or [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com) (for more writer-flavored things)


	16. The Calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brian? Brian. :)

It’d been weeks since Martin had given his statement. Jon had disappeared shortly thereafter, and it wasn’t Martin’s place to go running after him. He was...probably fine. Elias seemed to act like nothing was wrong, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Tim was in and out a lot, barely making eye contact with anyone and refusing any tea that Martin made for him. Melanie had started trying to figure out ways to kill Elias, and it wasn’t working out too well, but Martin was more than happy to help her annoy the shit out of him. Basira continued to keep to herself, often staying up in the library. Martin almost envied how calmly she was taking everything.

Martin stared at his phone—at all the times his calls to Jon had been rejected or gone unanswered. Hadn’t Jon held him after it all? Why would he ghost now, then? Or had something gone wrong?

His stomach churned at the thought of Nikola Orsinov getting ahold of him. They still didn’t know exactly what she needed to get the Unknowing underway, but having the avatar of a different Dread Power probably wouldn’t hurt. Would she do that, though? Martin didn’t exactly know much about her, apart from the statements that featured her. Still, it wasn’t _entirely_ unreasonable, was it?

He jumped up from his sofa and started pacing. Jon would be fine—he usually was. He was probably just avoiding the Institute, in all honesty. Or maybe he was just getting used to his new neighborhood. He _had_ been in the process of moving out of Georgie’s. In fact, he’d just finished a few days before he’d disappeared!

Then again, Martin had driven past the flat many times, and not once had the lights been on.

He shook his head. Maybe he should go for a walk and clear his head a bit. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea.

Stuffing his silent phone into his pocket, Martin grabbed his keys and turned out of his flat, dutifully locking the door behind him. The weather outside wasn’t too bad—just some clouds overhead that only threatened a little of the classic London drizzle he’d grown so used to.

He turned toward the nearest park and wandered off. The streets where he lived weren’t usually too crowded, and there was plenty of room for him to weave between other pedestrians, despite him not exactly being the smallest person he’d ever met. A smile drifted up his lips. _No, that award goes to Jon,_ he thought wryly.

_I hope he’s okay._

Martin pulled out his phone again, feeling a phantom buzz in his pocket. Of course, there was nothing. Unfortunately, he managed to stumble into someone just as he was about to put it away. The collision caused him to drop the phone.

“Watch it!” he growled. As if he weren’t already having a hard time.

“Sorry?” an innocent-sounding woman asked.

“Could’ve broken my phone,” Martin grumbled, despite the fact that it was completely his own fault.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He sighed. “Sorry. Bad day.”

She tipped her large hat at him. What was this, the 1920s? “Of course,” she grinned. “Maybe it’ll get better soon.”

Martin grunted and continued on his way.

Eventually, he found himself sitting on a bench watching some casual passersby wandering aimlessly without care. At least they didn’t have to worry if someone they cared about had been kidnapped by evil mannequins and clowns.

He should really talk to someone.

But Tim wouldn’t want to, Melanie and Basira weren’t close, really. They might humour him for a bit, but not too much for too long. Jon, of course, wasn’t reachable. So who did that leave him?

_Guess I could follow Jon’s suggestion and call one of the crew?_

He considered his phone again for a moment. _It couldn’t hurt. Might be nice, really._ His finger hovered over the names of those he’d come to know so well over decades. Finally, he made up his mind and dialed Brian. It’d be good to hear a friendly voice again, even if only for a bit.

Fortunately, Brain must’ve been close enough to his communicator for once, and picked up after only a minute or so. Thank God for Raph’s crazy cellphone-shaped comm actually working. “Hello?” Brian’s cheery voice answered. “Which of you lot needs me to pick them up today?”

“Hey Brian!” Martin grinned, relaxing into the park bench. He hadn’t realised just how much he missed the Drumbot.

“Martin?” Brian asked. “Haven’t heard from you in a bit! How’ve you been?”

“Oh, y’know, just dealing with another potential apocalypse,” Martin chuckled.

“Another one? You’re joking, right?”

“You’d think the universe would give me a break, really.”

Brian laughed. “Do you want me to swing by and get you?”

Martin thought for a moment. It _would_ be nice to run away from this whole mess, wouldn’t it? But...he had people he cared about here. Namely, Jon was here, and not on the Aurora. “No, I’m fine for now. Could change depending on some stuff coming up, but things haven’t gone completely south yet.”

“That’s fair. You’ve been doing all right otherwise?” 

“Yeah. I um...I came out to a friend actually, a couple weeks ago.”

Brian was silent for a moment. “Did...did they not realise you were gay?”

Martin snickered. “Honestly, he might not, but no I meant...I mean I told him about...well, _me_.”

“Oh.” Martin could almost see Brian frowning as much as his metal face would allow. “How did he take it?”

“I...that’s a good question, really. He gave me a hug? But now he’s disappeared, and I’m not sure if he’s hiding from me or if he’s been kidnapped again.”

“Did...did you just say kidnapped _again_?”

“Yeah, he’s...talented.”

Brian snorted. “Clearly. So you told your crush about your immortality, but not that you like him.”

“I never said he was my crush!”

“Didn’t have to; I’ve known you too long.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Brian.”

“Maybe you should go try to find him? Ask him?”

“I…” Martin faltered. “I’ve tried calling him, but he doesn’t answer. No one else will want to help look for him, and if he _has_ been kidnapped, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Well you’re not going to find out by sitting on a park bench.”

“Stop using your psychic powers to figure out where I am!”

Brian chuckled. “You know that’s not how my powers work.”

“Do I!?” Martin groaned. “You’re always so _vague_ about them!”

Someone plopped down on the bench beside him. “I had a premonition that you would be here today,” the newcomer said.

Martin fought the urge to chuck his phone at the nearest tree. “Prick,” he muttered, hanging up the call.

Brian hadn’t changed much since the last time Martin had seen him. Of course, that was usually the case with any of the Mechanisms. Still, there were _some_ differences. He’d clearly polished himself recently, given the near-reflective shine that was a bit blinding, really. He’d gone back to adding copper wires to his chin to give himself a beard, and the wires that made up his hair were a bit shorter than they’d been a few years ago.

“You seem to be doing well, all things considered.” Brian smirked. “You just get lonely?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I have friends here, too, you know.”

“Yes, your possibly-kidnapped crush and…?”

He thought for a moment. Given how everyone else had been lately, _did_ he have other friends? Not really, it didn’t feel like. “Okay, yeah. That...that’s fair.”

Brian laughed, stretching one of his arms around Martin. “You’ve got to relax a bit more. Leave all the craziness to Jonny and Tim.”

“That’d be a lot easier if I weren’t currently trying to stop _clowns and mannequins_ from destroying my planet.”

Brian blinked at him. “Sorry, what?”

“Yep!” Martin replied. “Clowns and mannequins are trying to start the apocalypse! Not exactly ‘trains in space’, but the skin-stealing monsters are...something.”

“Sounds unpleasant.”

“Not as bad as the worms, if I’m being honest.”

“I thought you worked in a library.”

Martin breathed out a deep sigh. “Yeah. Got moved down to the Archives. Turns out working for a place that studies the supernatural tends to get you a bit more involved with it than you’d like.”

Brian looked around. “So, what, is Yog-Sothoth just gonna pop out at some point, now?”

“I think I’d just die if that happened.”

“Doubt it.”

Martin shrugged. “I can dream. Besides, I’m pretty sure that whatever these Fear Entities are, they’re not necessarily related to Yog-Sothoth.”

“Maybe we should get Lyf out here to take a look.”

“I’d rather leave them be. Marius might think I’m trying to steal them or something.”

Now it was Brian’s turn to shrug. “A century or two of Marius being pissed isn’t anything new, you know.”

“‘Course not!” Martin grinned. “I just don’t appreciate being killed constantly!”

“That’s fair.”

A few people walked by, shooting confused looks at Brian as they passed. A shame he couldn’t blend in as easily as some of the others; he’d probably prefer to. “So how’re the others?” Martin asked.

Brian leaned back and stared at the clouded sky. “Jonny’s been running around trying to play Murder Tag again, and Ivy’s locked up the library so he can’t do anything to the books. Tim’s decided to go off on his own for a bit—didn’t say when he might be back. I think he just wanted to destroy some things. Ashes and Raph are trying to turn other elements into gold right now, and Marius ran off with Lyf. We have no idea where either of them got off to.”

Martin snorted. “I’m sure they’re happy wherever they are, probably repeatedly shooting each other.”

Brian hummed an agreement. “I think Lyf wanted to test out some of their powers on a blank system, and they just dragged him along.”

“As long as my planet doesn’t suddenly get consumed by a rainbow god from between realities, I’ll be happy.”

“You probably don’t need to worry about that right now,” Brian said. “Speaking of, though, have you noticed if anything’s...different? Anything that Yog-Sothoth might have caused?”

Martin bit his lip. So far, he felt like he’d escaped mostly unscathed, but it was probably only a matter of time, wasn’t it? The universe hadn’t exactly been _kind_ to him before. “Nothing so far. I mean, Lyf _did_ pull most of the influence out of me, right? So maybe nothing’ll happen.”

“I hope you’re right on that one…”

“Have any prophecies for me about it?”

Brian’s gaze drifted. “No...anytime the Powers From Beyond are involved, it’s hard for me to really see much of anything.”

“Was worth a shot.”

“Yeah.”

They sat there in a comfortable silence for a few moments. It was...it was really nice to see a proper friend again, as opposed to someone he _wanted_ to be friends with or someone he wanted to be _more_ than friends with. “Don’t suppose you could tell me where Jon’s at,” Martin muttered.

“Is that his name?” Brian asked. “Best not tell Jonny.”

“Yeah, the irony isn’t lost on me. Plus, there’s another guy named Tim.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Don’t get me started on the multiple Michaels.”

Brian’s grin broadened. “When you live as long as we do, I’m pretty sure you encounter just about every conceivable name, Martin.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffed, “it’s inconvenient.”

“Sometimes.”

“You still didn’t answer my question, though.”

Brian sighed. “I can’t just _force_ a premonition. We’ve been over this before. As much as I’d like to help you find him, there’s not a lot that I can do.”

Martin kicked the dirt under the bench. “Figures. Still, I figured I could at least ask.”

“Sorry, Martin.”

He sighed. “It’s...it’s fine. I mean, of course I’m worried about him, but...he’ll probably be okay. And with the thing I’ve got for him, it might even be easier if I never saw him again.”

“You won’t leave him, though. Not unless he wants you to.”

“Yeah…”

Brian stood and stretched. “I’m sorry I can’t be much help, but if you ever need a friend to chat with, you know how to reach me.”

“Just gonna run off, then?”

He laughed. “I have to make sure Raph doesn’t accidentally do any nuclear fusion on the ship. I don’t think Aurora would much appreciate it.”

Martin smirked. “Probably not.” He pulled himself to his feet. “Thanks, Brian. It...it was good to see you again.”

“Of course! Just call if you need anything, all right?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”

Brian waved, and walked off—likely headed for the closest abandoned alleyway where he could secretly teleport back to the ship—and Martin headed back home.


	17. Elysian Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, Jon's back! Wonder what he's been up to all this time since... *checks notes* ...two chapters ago...  
> Damn, once I really get into s4 stuff, I'm gonna have one hell of a time writing Martin interacting with people who aren't Jon, aren't I?
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some sweet little h/c :)

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon murmured. “I know we haven’t had much chance to...to talk, lately.”

Martin wrung his hands; Jon had just gotten back after having indeed been kidnapped. He’d been gone for a _month_ and Martin hadn’t even _tried_ to look for him! What kind of monster was he, that left his closest friend to the hands of things that wanted to tear his skin off and use it for some sort of apocalypse-summoning ritual!? How could he _do_ that!?

Rather than voice any of that pain, he just shrugged, chuckling a bit too consciously. “Well- I mean it’s not too late, y’know. Unless the world ends.”

Jon sighed and stared at his desk. “Yeah...I just...I wish I didn’t have to...to leave again so soon. It would’ve been nice t-to have a break for a bit. To be…”

“Safe?” Martin asked.

Jon hesitated only for a moment, before rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

There were wounds all around his wrists, and Martin was sure there were more around his waist and ankles. Wounds where the ropes that had bound him for a _month_ had scratched away the skin and left him bloodied and defeated. Why hadn’t Martin done anything? Was Jon asking the same question?

“I...if it’s all right,” Jon said, finally pulling his gaze from the dying potted plants that Martin had tried and failed to keep alive, “I’d...I’d rather not leave on my own today.”

Martin dragged his mind out of whatever despairs it was about to spiral into. “Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked softly.

“If...only if you’re all right with that, Martin.”

Martin snorted, but there was no frustration in it—only a sad, soft smile. “Of course, Jon. As long as...as long as you feel safe with me, I’ll do what I can to help.”

Jon’s sad, dark-rimmed eyes peered up at him. “Why wouldn’t I feel safe with you?”

“Well...I mean…” Martin cleared his throat. “I thought after my um...my statement, you might not...not want to be around me?”

Jon’s eyes went wide, his mouth parting slightly in something resembling shock, but which was too exhausted to be the real thing. “Is that...is that why you didn’t…?”

There were stubborn tears trying to break through the dams in his eyes. “I-I...a bit? I tried to call, but you never answered. I figured you either didn’t want to talk to me, or you were kidnapped. Or maybe you’d gone off on your own? I just...I wouldn’t have even known where to start looking, and Elias didn’t even—”

“Martin.”

He took a breath; it seemed those tears had escaped after all. “I’m _sorry_ , Jon,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve...I should’ve _tried_.”

Jon looked away. “It’s like you said: you wouldn’t have known where to start. I can’t...I can’t expect that of you. I’m sorry I made you think that...that I was afraid of you. I’m not.”

“...You’re not?”

“Of course not,” Jon scoffed. “You couldn’t have- I mean how could _anyone_ —” He stopped and took a quick breath, his face softening. “You had no idea that was going to happen to you. I can’t be afraid of you for something that...that you had no say in.”

Martin gave him a sharp stare. “Do you have any idea how hypocritical you sound right now?”

Jon rubbed his eyes. “I...I know. Yes. I just...you’re still _human_. I’m...I don’t know _what_ I am, anymore.”

If only Jon knew. Martin would...he would have to come clean about that eventually. But right now, it would probably be almost _cruel_ to admit what he really was. “You’re still you, Jon,” Martin said softly, reaching across the desk and clasping one of Jon’s hands in his own. His skin was soft—smoother than it had ever been. Nikola had at least done that for him, but...the way she’d done that—the way she’d _hurt_ him—Martin would never forgive her for that.

Jon’s fingers wound around Martin’s. “I...maybe…”

Martin gave his hand a squeeze. “We can work with maybe. If I can still be considered human, so can you.” _Especially since I’ve literally been a part of a rainbowy Elder God._

Jon let out a deep sigh. “I...I’ll try to believe that, Martin. I really will.”

“Good.”

They sat there for a long moment, just holding each other’s hand. Martin couldn’t help but wonder if he could really have this after all—some sort of further relationship with Jon. Was he allowed to have something as nice as that? Would the universe let him?

“I think I’m ready to go home,” Jon sighed. “It’s...anywhere but here, really.”

Martin slid from his chair and pulled Jon around from the other side of the desk, still keeping their hands clasped together. “Of course. I’m right with you.”

Jon hummed. “It’ll be nice to...to be somewhere else. Not have to—” he chuckled “—to sleep sitting up and tied to a chair.”

Martin’s heart ached. “I’m sorry. That sounds horrible.”

“...It was.”

“Well...you’re safe now, at least.”

Jon stared up at him, his eyes once so bright and lively now dull and pained. “I wish I were.”

* * *

They managed to make it to Jon’s flat without anything attacking them or otherwise trying to ruin what, to an outsider, looked like just another a couple out for a nice walk. Martin couldn’t help but regret not driving to the Institute more often. It would’ve been nice for a day like this one, just so he could keep Jon away from any prying eyes. Or Eyes, as it were.

At least he got to hold Jon’s hand.

When they made it to the building, Jon turned to Martin. “You could...you could stay here tonight, if you like,” he said, his voice quiet but pleading. “It’s...I mean, it’s already dark out, and—”

“Okay, Jon,” Martin said, knowing that he would do just about anything the man asked of him at this point. Relief washed over Jon’s face, and he pulled Martin inside.

It was a funny thing, wasn’t it? He’d come so far from flat-out denial of his feelings to a calm acceptance. All within only a few months, even! For a Mechanism, that was no time at all, but whatever part of him that was indeed still human couldn’t help but long for _something_. And while he knew that someday he would be alone again, he would savour every moment with Jon while he could. While he had a _chance_. Even if Jon didn’t love him back, that was okay. He just wished he were brave enough to admit how he felt to more than just himself.

The flat was dusty. Martin supposed that made sense, since no one had been inside it for a month. Most of Jon’s belongings were still piled up in boxes left in the corners, and the only things that were really _out_ were the bed, a few kitchen items like pots and pans, and a pile of old books. There wasn’t even a table, nor a couch.

Jon paused. “I...forgot I didn’t have a sofa yet.”

Martin snickered. “It’s fine, Jon. I can still head home. Or I could sleep on the floor or something.”

“I mean...I-I _guess_...It’s not really polite to have you sleep on the floor, though.”

He looked so uncertain, but he was still holding Martin’s hand in practically a death grip. There was no way Martin could leave him alone like this. Not after...after he’d been gone so long, locked away from the world with nothing but monsters of plastic and wire that wanted to kill him for company. Jon needed...he needed human connection (or at least a connection to something close enough to human). “Your um…” The warmth in his cheeks was _not_ helping matters. He just needed to shoot his shot or give up. “Your bed’s big enough for the both of us, if...if you’re okay with that?”

Jon’s face flushed bright red. He stuttered, fumbled for words. “I-I, well I mean- I-I _guess_ if...but well...it’s really...erm—”

Well, he’d tried. “It’s fine,” Martin said, hoping he didn’t sound _too_ disappointed. “It was just a suggestion.” He gave Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll just head back to mine, and we can see each other tomorrow. I’ll call, okay?”

The panic in Jon’s eyes was almost frightening. He gripped Martin’s hand in both of his tightly, and if Martin had been capable of feeling, probably painfully. “Please don’t leave me,” he begged, voice hoarse with more emotion that Martin had ever seen in him before.

Martin stared at him for a moment, unable to truly comprehend what exactly was happening. Jon wanted someone nearby, but Jon wanted _him_ nearby. “O-okay,” Martin whispered. “Okay, I’ll stay.” He pulled Jon closer into a tight embrace, draping himself over the man as if he could be a shield from the rest of the world. Maybe he could, if he were brave enough to try.

Jon clutched at Martin’s jumper, shaking. He didn’t speak.

They stood like that for a long time, just holding each other and pretending they weren’t crying.

* * *

It was quite possibly the scariest moment of his life, if he was being honest. They’d stuck together until Jon was too exhausted to care much about anything else but sleep, and then they were supposed to...they needed to…

Martin chided himself. _It’s not like you’ve never slept in the same bed as someone else before. Hell, you’ve done it with people you_ don’t _like before._

The louder part of his mind kept screaming in abject terror, though.

He laid down beside Jon, not willing to crawl under the covers just yet. Jon was barely aware anymore, and Martin honestly couldn’t blame him for driving himself to the point of exhaustion. His nightmares would likely be relentless, given how the past month of his life had gone. Maybe Martin should reach out, pull him close as they laid there together.

Jon shook slightly under the duvet, and he shuffled a bit closer to Martin. Martin sighed and finally pulled the blankets up and over himself. After a few minutes, Jon stopped shaking.

“Thank you,” Jon rasped. “For...for staying. For...everything.”

Martin glanced over, and Jon’s eyes shone out at him from deep under the covers. “Thought you were asleep,” he said.

Jon smirked, but there was no humour in it. “Sleep doesn’t...it doesn’t come easily anymore.”

Turning himself to face Jon, Martin couldn’t help but marvel at this moment—at how close they were. “I know the feeling,” he replied. “It’s hard to forget about the nightmares.”

Jon stared at the mattress. “I can’t help but feel that I’m hurting people with mine. Like...like they’re reliving their own nightmares, but now I’m there. Or...well, the _Archivist_ is there…”

“You’re not a monster, Jon.”

“Then why...why do I always feel like I am?”

Against his better judgement, Martin reached out, draping his hand lightly over Jon’s chest. When Jon didn’t move away, Martin scooted closer and properly pulled him close until he could hear the way Jon’s breath had shallowed and could feel the pounding of his heartbeat against the ferocity of his own. “Because you’re afraid,” he said. “Because Elias wants you to think that you are so you’ll do whatever he’s planning.”

Jon buried his face in Martin’s chest, and Martin breathed in the scent of strawberry shampoo still clinging to Jon’s soft hair. The bumps and divots that made up Jon’s ribcage were smooth under Martin’s hand, and the trust Jon had to be giving him must have been so great to let him hold him like this. Was it too much? Was it too intimate?

Would the universe let him have this?

“Martin?” Jon said, his tired voice catching with some emotion that Martin was afraid to put a label on.

“Yes, Jon?”

“In the morning, could we...could we talk? Properly? About...about all of...this? Wh-whatever...whatever this is?”

Martin’s breath caught in his throat. “I...yeah,” he said, forcing himself to relax around Jon’s warm body despite every mechanical nerve of his body begging him to kiss the man. “Yeah that’s...that’s a good idea.”

Jon pressed even closer to Martin, and Martin held him tightly. “Thank you,” Jon murmured, although Martin didn’t so much hear it as he did feel it against his chest.

Not long after, Martin heard Jon’s breathing deepen and his rapid heartbeat steady. Shortly after that, Martin also drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh mah God there was only one bed :o
> 
> Aren't they just adorable? It'd be a shame if someone ruined it...
> 
> Follow me over on Tumblr at [@therealandian](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) (for lots of tma) or [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com) (for a more writing-based blog)


	18. Rose Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Rose, Rose, Rose Red_  
>  _Eternity will see her dead_  
>  _Always marching on to fight to another. Bitter. End._  
> 
> 
> CW: unreality, panic attacks, serious self-loathing, crimes against tea (microwaving)

The creature no longer knew what it was, nor had it a concept of time or identity apart from the shifting, undulating hues formed within the domain of Yog-Sothoth. It was not alive, nor was it dead. It was neither and both, really. Life did not exist within Yog-Sothoth, although things still moved and changed. Sometimes, these things escaped the confines of the entity and forged paths of their own, leaving their creator far behind in time and space. But in the end, all things returned to Yog-Sothoth.

This creature had not always belonged within the Rainbow, however. Once, long ago (though no time at all—for time had no meaning in this place), it had belonged to the existence beyond the Key and the Gate. It thinks that once, it may have known what that place was. Perhaps the creature had once had a name in that other world where colours did not shift so much, and time and reality did not warp and form a nothingless void.

But it belonged here, now, in this place that was not a place in this time that was not a time. The unreality was where it thrived, for reality had no purpose, and all feeble life within it would disappear forever within the flowing black and colour. This creature had just been lucky enough to enter before it had died. Or perhaps it _had_ died, and this was what laid beyond it. It did not care, for it did not know what it meant to care.

Another entity approached it eventually. This entity was less chaotic than most within this realm. It only had four limbs, all of which had only five extensions and were segmented into even pieces. What was it?

“So this is where you’ve gotten to,” the newcomer said. It had a mouth, even though the first creature did not. “They told me to look for you somewhere in here.”

The first creature burbled closer, inspecting its fellow creature. It did not look like a creation of Yog-Sothoth usually did in this forsaken realm.

“I’ll need to take you closer to the edge, I’m afraid,” the second creature murmured. “It might hurt a bit, but I don’t think you’re too far gone just yet. Perks of being immortal, eh?”

It placed one of its limbs on the first creature’s flesh. The touch was inconceivable. It _felt_. When was the last time the creature had felt anything at all? Was it before it had been subsumed?

“You should be good after we get you out, though there might be a little bit of Yog-Sothoth’s influence left behind. Can’t say how much, though. Maybe you’ll get lucky and not wind up like me.” The second creature looked around the domain. “Being a demigod kind of sucks, if I’m being honest.”

The first creature was too busy feeling. It poked one of its limbs at the other creature; it craved more touch—more _feeling_.

“Do you want a hug or something? I’m trying to pull you out of an Elder God right now, please calm down.”

And then the creature was in a place, during a time. It had a name: Martin Blackwood. Martin Blackwood was once a human, now an immortal Mechanism. He remembered.

Marius stared down at him, worry carving canyons across his forehead. Another person stood beside him—the same person who he had seen within the Colours.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Marius asked, not seeming to realise that Martin was aware.

“It’s hard to tell,” the other person said. They swiped at a loose strand of their bleach-white hair and frowned. “He wasn’t just _in_ the Bifrost, he was _absorbed_.”

Martin tried to say something—realised he had a mouth with which to do so. “Marius?” he croaked. “Wh-what…?”

Marius’s eyes widened. “You’re awake!” he cried, mouth splitting into a wide, playful grin. “How do you feel?”

“Like…” He frowned. “I don’t know, actually. Sort of...fuzzy? Like I’m not all here right now?”

“That’s to be expected,” the other person muttered. “You’ve been trapped in there for...well, time doesn’t exactly matter there, so that doesn’t really help.”

“Wh—”

Marius clapped the other person on the shoulder. “This is Lyf,” he said. “They got caught by the Bifrost, too, but they’re sort of immortal now and also a demigod.”

Lyf rolled their eyes. “A truly _stunning_ explanation, Von Raum.”

“How long was I...was I gone…?”

Lyf shrugged. “Hard to say. D’Ville said it’s been a few decades since he last saw you. He didn’t even realise you were still in Yggdrasil when Yog-Sothoth came through until he heard your voice lost in the S.O.S. calls while finishing up his ‘album’,” they sneered.

“But when did...when did Yog-Sothoth come through?”

“Impossible to tell!” they cried with false cheeriness, throwing up their hands. “Yggdrasil both never existed, still exists, and is being destroyed this very moment!”

“That...that doesn’t make any—”

“Sense?” Their manic eyes gleamed, shifting through different hues and shades. “Welcome to my world!”

Martin looked around the sterile room. The ship’s engines thrummed a familiar rhythm, and he knew he was on the Aurora. “So...how am I here, then?”

“Jonny and Tim dragged you out once I got you back to the Outer Layers,” Lyf explained. Marius nodded approvingly.

“And what, now I’m just...fine…?”

Marius threw his hands up. “We have no idea! You might have eldritch powers, or you might just keep being regular ol’ Martin K.”

Lyf rolled their eyes. “Only time will tell, I’m afraid. I got launched centuries into the future and two dimensions over before I found this idiot again. All I know is that _I_ can’t die, now, can go places that don’t actually exist, and also can travel time and space basically at will.”

Martin blinked. “Well that’s...that’s kind of...not terrible?”

“True,” Lyf grunted. “It could’ve been much worse. It seems like Yog-Sothoth wants me as some sort of child of its. I have no idea if that means I’ll eventually evolve into an Elder God myself, or not, but I guess I’ll find out someday.

“You were in pretty deep, though. It’s possible that it left its mark on you much the same way it did me.”

“Right…,” Martin frowned. “So...am I dangerous?”

Marius smacked him on the shoulder. “Of course you are! You’re a Mechanism!”

Lyf shoved him. “Ignore him,” they muttered. “There’s still the influence of Yog-Sothoth within you, and if you want, I can try to draw it out of you so it doesn’t cause problems down the road and turn you into something like me.”

“O-okay,” Martin stammered. It was all so overwhelming. “What um...what do I have to do? To get the rest of it...out?”

Lyf grinned. “Just try to relax and hold still. I mean, from what the others told me, I can’t exactly _hurt_ you.”

Marius pulled up a couple of chairs and plopped down into one of them, gesturing for Lyf to have the other.

Lyf sighed. “Guess you’re not leaving, then,” they groaned.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I _like_ seeing you go a bit freaky?” Marius grinned.

Rolling their eyes one more time, they turned back to Martin, who was feeling a bit calmer than he was pretty sure he ought to. “Ready?” Lyf asked.

“I-I guess.”

“Right then. Just relax.”

At first, he didn’t feel much of anything—just discomfort with Lyf staring at them, and Marius watching them both with that eager gleam in his eyes that he always got when he thought something might get deadly. Then the sensation crept up behind his eyes, almost like...pain?

_Pain._

White-hot, searing, _tearing_ pain burning through his mind with the colours and nothingness that wanted to consume him once more.

Martin screamed.

* * *

He was still screaming. There was pain. Pain and agony and terror and _colour_ taking over and ripping him apart all over again. Something was shaking him. He had to get away. So bright, so colourful. He was trapped, wasn’t he? Back in that rainbow _hell_?

He stumbled away, pushing away limbs that certainly couldn’t be human and crashing onto some surface below. His voice grew hoarse, and all he could see were the colours.

“Martin!” someone called. Who?

Again, the voice shouted, just above him. Hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Martin!”

A slap across the cheek. “Snap out of it, Martin!” the voice cried. “Please! I—”

He remembered. The pain began to subside. “J-Jon?”

“ _Christ_ , Martin!”

Jon was on top of him straddling his torso, and they were both on the floor. The blankets were thrown about, half-draped over Jon’s thin body. Martin was panting, coated in a layer of cold sweat. Rainbow light still danced through the darkened room, and Martin had a bad feeling that he wasn’t the only one who could see it.

In an ideal world, it would’ve just been a regular nightmare, and now that they were awake, Jon would lean down and kiss him right then and there. But Martin had been around too long to have soft hopes like that. Whatever the hell had just happened with him, Jon probably wasn’t going to be around him for much longer than it would take for him to tell the story—to truly explain to Jon what he was. Did he even know what that was anymore?

A sob bubbled up in the back of his throat, but he choked it down. Of _course_ his nightmares would choose the moment he’d finally gotten _somewhere_ with Jon to give him _that_ again. Jon still stared at him, mesmerised.

Martin looked away from him, covering his eyes. “I-I’m sorry, Jon,” he whispered. “I-I…”

Jon’s hands gently pulled Martin’s arm away from his eyes and cradled his face. “Your eyes,” he whispered. “They...they’re…”

“I know.”

“But...but _how_?”

“I…” _Because I’m a freak_ , he wanted to say. _Because I’m a monster._

Jon frowned. “Are you...are you okay, Martin?”

The buzz of compulsion finally dragged out the tears he’d been trying so hard to hold back. “No,” he whimpered. _I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do._

“O-okay,” Jon said, gaze flicking up and around the bedroom. “I...would you like some tea? Would that help?”

Martin snorted wetly. “I- yeah. I think...I think that’d be nice.”

“All right.” Jon began to move, and Martin almost wanted him to come back, to keep being that reassuring weight resting on him. But he didn’t say anything. “Come on.”

He took Martin’s hand and helped him up. The phantom pain had gone, but Martin stumbled with vertigo. This place was...real. It was real. Jon was real, and _he_ was real. His memories of Yog-Sothoth were bad, but they were just memories. He was still here, still surrounded by reality.

Jon guided him into the tiny kitchen area and helped him back onto the floor since there were no chairs. “Don’t move, okay?” he said.

Martin nodded.

His mind raced. What would Jon think of him now? He would have to tell him everything, and there was no guarantee that that conversation they were planning on having in the morning was going to happen now.

_I should’ve known. I should’ve known._

But how could he have? It wasn’t like his nightmares were ever _predictable_. And plus, it hadn’t been too terribly long since his last dream of the Bifrost, so he’d had no reason to be afraid that it would return.

He tried to think, but the panic induced by the pain and terror was making things difficult. It didn’t matter that he was in no immediate danger, and that the shifting rainbow gleam in his eyes had faded. It didn’t matter that Jon hadn’t immediately run away from him in disgust. He would run away soon, and Martin would be alone again. Probably forever, this time.

“Here,” Jon murmured, his voice soft and surprisingly calm given the circumstances. He pushed a warm mug into Martin’s shaking hands.

Martin took a sip, breathing in the scent of chamomile. “You microwaved this,” he muttered. “Pretty sure that’s a criminal offense.”

Jon leaned against the wall beside him, sipping from his own mug. “Wouldn’t be the first time the police were looking for me.” He glanced at Martin with a smug little grin. Apparently he saw the slight horror on Martin’s face in return. “Sorry. Poor taste.”

Martin took another drink of tea, savouring the warmth it settled in his stomach. “I’m sorry, Jon,” he whispered. “I didn’t...I didn’t know that would happen.”

“What...what _did_ happen?”

_You have to tell him. He deserves to know._

Martin let out a long, defeated sigh. “I’m not...well, _obviously_ I’m not human. Humans don’t have rainbow eyes and metal nerves.”

Jon’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

A smirk tried to take over Martin’s face, but it was too overshadowed by what he knew he had to do. “I used to be human—back before...well...I already told you that story. This one, though...it’s what happened after.

“I hid at home for a few days. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Sure, I wasn’t in pain, but for all I knew, she’d made me into...I dunno, a-a _bomb_ or something! So...so I hid. But then...then someone broke into my flat and…” Martin took a breath. “It was Jonny. Jonny d’Ville. He was looking for Nastya, and he found me instead.”

“But...but that’s your bandmate, isn’t it?” Jon asked.

“I...yeah...but d’you remember what I told you about the band? About our whole...schtick?”

“The...the immortal space pirate thing?”

“Yeah. It’s...it’s not a schtick, Jon, I’m...it’s real. All of it.”

Jon blinked at him. “Martin…?”

“I’m immortal, and I went to space and became a time-travelling, dimension-hopping pirate. I can’t be killed, I don’t age, and I travel around telling musical stories about people who met tragic and horrible ends. I’ve been alive for hundreds of years, I can’t feel pain, and I have no idea how many people are dead because of me and my crew.”

Jon didn’t speak for a long time. He stared at Martin, as if trying to fit all of that into his schema just wasn’t quite working out. “You...i-immortal? Space pirate?”

“Yes.”

He took a long breath, letting it go slowly. “That’s...that’s a lot, Martin.”

“I know.”

Silence followed, uncomfortable as any. Martin drained his tea and tried not to wish it were whiskey instead—that he were anywhere but here having this conversation.

It hurt, really. He’d been _so close_ to maybe actually having _something_. A partner, perhaps? But now...now it was all for nothing. It wouldn’t matter anymore because Jon would see him for what he was.

“So you…,” Jon ventured, “why are you here? Why...why come back?”

Martin rubbed his eyes. “Things...things happened. I wasn’t myself. I needed a-a break. To get away.”

“And...what about now?”

Martin didn’t answer.

“...Right…,” Jon murmured.

He rubbed his eyes, only just realising he’d left his glasses in Jon’s bedroom. Would he be allowed to retrieve them before he was chased out? No, probably not. It wasn’t like he needed them desperately, anyway. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you before. When...when I gave that statement. I should’ve told you.”

Jon stared very critically at his empty tea mug. “I...I can’t say that I blame you for holding that back. I don’t know...I don’t think I would’ve handled it well at that point.”

“Implying that you’re handling it well now?”

“I…”

He wasn’t—of _course_ he wasn’t. How could _anyone_ handle something like this well? Even Martin himself still had trouble truly comprehending it all; the human mind wasn’t made for this sort of thing. And whatever Jon might have felt for him, well…

Martin stood abruptly; he couldn’t keep entertaining these thoughts. He was a monster, and Jon was not. Jon was so, _so_ much more than he deserved, and the fact that he’d even _tried_ to have something was stupid. He was so stupid.

He didn’t deserve to be loved.

“I’m so sorry, Jon,” he choked. “I...I should go. I’ll stay away. Just- just forget about this...me. Forget about me.”

And he ran. He ran out the door, down the hall, out into that warm summer night. Tears ran from his eyes, and he ran from the one person he’d dared to think he could love—the one person who could have truly loved him back if he weren’t such a terrible, terrible monster.

He thought back to his dream, and couldn’t help but wish that Lyf had left him behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)
> 
> Follow me over on Tumblr at [@therealandian](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) for my main (lots of tma!) or [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com) for more writing-based stuff!


	19. Twisted Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's about time a particular pair of boys talked to each other...
> 
> CW: self-hatred, accidental compulsions, mention of abuse (via Elias)

Jon finally stopped trying to call him two weeks later. He’d already set off for China the previous week, from what Melanie told him when he finally came back. When he couldn’t stand the sickness that crept up on him. Tim was right, at least; he felt much better the moment he stepped back into the Institute.

And Jon wasn’t there.

It almost felt _empty_. Basira holed herself up in a corner for days on end while she tried to read the entire library. Melanie was distant, and Tim was even more so.

Martin missed Jon.

He’d hoped the hole in his chest was just from not being at the Institute—the illness that came with denying the god none of them had ever chosen. But no, he knew he was just lying to himself. It was everything he could do not to listen to the voicemails and read through the dozens of texts he knew Jon had sent. They were probably full of awful things—screaming about Martin leading him on, about not telling him, about being the worst person he’d ever had the misfortune of knowing.

It was for the best. He knew it was for the best.

So he drifted to and from his empty work and empty home. He had no purpose anyway, not while he was still bound to the Institute. He wanted to call Brian again, but every time his hand hovered over the phone, he just couldn’t bring himself to dial. Maybe it was the Eye holding him back. Maybe it was his own fears. It didn’t really matter.

Life grew quiet for a few uneventful days.

* * *

Martin stared at the man in front of him. His face was more drawn, his eyes even more haunted than they had been. (His fault. All his fault.)

Why hadn’t he locked the door? Why had he let himself be cornered? Now...now he would hear all of the hatred from the mouth of the person he loved. All the hatred that he had caused by being what he was.

“Martin,” Jon said softly. His gaze was gentle, but surely that was just an illusion.

“Hello, Jon,” Martin replied, his voice cracked and dull; he knew what was coming.

Jon shifted on his feet. “We um...everyone’s meeting down in the tunnels to...to discuss the Unknowing. Would you...would you please join us?”

Martin blinked up at him, vision still quite fuzzy without his glasses. “...Sorry?”

“We need to...to have a plan.”

“Oh…”

“I...I know you’re probably a bit more...well, I know the two of us should probably... _talk_ ,” Jon said, throwing his gaze around the small office space, “but this...this should come first, I think. I’d rather not talk about...what happened before, here.”

“Right.”

Jon approached the desk slowly, as if Martin were some sort of dangerous animal that had to be handled with caution. Perhaps he was. “I’m not- ...Martin, I’ve had time to think about the, um…‘revelations’ from that night. I’m not angry with you, o-or even upset! I just—” he reached out and gently took Martin’s hand in his own “—I’m still...processing it all, I suppose. But we need to talk about everything going on with the Unknowing, and I don’t want to do that without you there.”

The soft touch was enough to send him reeling, but the words… Jon wasn’t upset? Against his better judgement, he laced his fingers through Jon’s. “Okay,” he heard himself say.

There was a blush in Jon’s cheeks. Soft, like him. And he smiled. “Come on,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”

The warmth of Jon’s hand left, but the hole in Martin’s heart seemed to be filling back up. _I love him,_ he thought, letting himself complete the thought for the first time in weeks. _I love him._

The walk down the tunnels was quiet. Jon counted out their steps to himself, but Martin just wanted to feel that warmth of his hand again. _Would he let me kiss him?_ he wondered. Probably not down there in the lightless depths of the Institute, but maybe— _perhaps_ —after they talked?

Basira, Melanie, and Daisy were already there waiting by the time they reached their destination. The three women shot questioning looks at each other as the pair of them walked into the small, off-set room. Basira had a slight smirk on her face.

“Glad you didn’t take _too_ long,” Melanie sneered. “Now let’s hurry up with this so I can get the hell out of here.”

“We still need to wait on Tim,” Jon sighed. “As soon as he’s here, we can start.”

“Can’t help but think we look a bit like a cult meeting,” Daisy said. “All we need are the black robes.”

“Spooky,” Martin snickered. Even if Jon knew the truth, none of the others did. At least, he was pretty _sure_ they didn’t. Would Jon have told them?

“Do we need to pick a sacrifice?” Tim’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I vote Jon.”

Jon stared at the ground. “Thank you, Tim,” he said dryly.

Tim just sneered and plopped down in the corner furthest from everyone else.

“Right then,” Jon murmured. “Let’s just get to it, then, I suppose.”

“Do we know where it’s happening yet?” Basira asked. Everyone glanced around at each other, as if they were all hoping that someone else knew. “Take that as a no, then,” she said, scribbling something into a notebook.

“Do we even know what we’re supposed to be looking for?” asked Melanie.

Jon grunted. “Gertrude had a storage unit in Hainault under the name Jan Kelly. We should probably start there.”

“Best lead we’ve had in awhile,” Daisy muttered. “I’ll hunt it down.”

Basira scribbled again in her book. “Good. Any plans to deal with Elias yet?”

Martin had thought about this quite a lot, actually. Ever since Melanie’s performance review with Elias, and the revelation that Elias couldn’t pay attention to everything at all times… “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got...well, it’s _half_ a plan?”

Jon looked at him, eyes wide and hopeful. “Do tell,” he prompted. He couldn’t know how much that gaze hurt.

“Well, we know that Elias isn’t _completely_ omniscient, so what if we distract him outside his office? Surely he’s got _something_ hidden up there th-that’s incriminating? If someone can keep his focus while someone else goes up and finds that, we might be able to pin him with _something_ , even if it’s not, like, a letter to Peter Lukas or someone explaining that he bashed in Jurgen Leitner’s skull and shot Gertrude.

“That’s...not a bad plan,” Jon hummed. “But how would we distract him?”

“I could stab his eyes out,” Melanie suggested with a sneer. “Don’t think he’d be able to see much at all, then.”

“You risk killing him,” Basira said, writing viciously. “I’d rather not die from that, if that’s all right with you.”

Martin sighed. “We could...set stuff on fire? Burn the Archives?”

Jon’s hopeful gaze turned into something pained, helpless. “Maybe not the _whole_ Archives?”

“I mean, I could just light up a few statements,” Martin shrugged. “Didn’t realise you were that attached to it, Jon.”

Jon looked away. “I...while I was away, I discovered that my...need to record statements may not be quite so much of a-a _compulsion_ as it is...necessary?”

Basira paused. “Care to elaborate?”

He sighed. “Elias sent me a statement while I was in America. Said it would ‘tide me over’. I’d been feeling...ill. Tired constantly. The last time I’d read a statement was in China, and it’d already been more than a week since then? After I finished it, I felt...better.”

“Great,” Tim muttered. “Now Jon’s lost his mind even _more_.”

“I wish I could say it was mere coincidence but...I think we all know it’s not.”

“Right,” Martin squeaked. He filed that news under something he would worry about later, along with the talk he and Jon would be having. “So um...I could just...set a couple statements you’ve already read on fire? Get his attention?”

“How would you keep his attention?” Daisy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I…” He rubbed his face, still surprised when he didn’t hit his glasses. The glasses he had left at Jon’s. “I thought I could...provoke him. Sort of...bait him into, well, what he did to- to Melanie?”

Jon’s brows creased. “What happened to Melanie?” he asked.

“We’re not going to talk about it!” Melanie sneered, shooting daggers at Martin with her eyes. She looked like she was in pain. “And that’s a terrible idea, Martin; you have _no_ idea how much it hurts!”

“I don’t care what it takes,” Martin said. “I...I know it’ll hurt but...I’m willing to risk it if we can _get rid of him_.”

Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Basira’s pen returned to its paper. “You think you can keep him long enough?” she asked.

 _I could grab him and make him_ hurt _until we find something if I wanted._ “Maybe?” he gulped. _It wouldn’t even be a problem to just_ kill _him!_ “Maybe we could do it during the Unknowing? Uh- kill two birds with one stone?”

“He _would_ be doubly distracted,” Jon muttered, fidgeting with his collar. “That’s not a bad idea, Martin.”

Martin glowed with pride. “Well, um, thank you,” he said, blushing. Damn his softness. “Would anyone rather help me with that than deal with the um...the Unknowing?”

“Sure,” Melanie smirked. “If I can’t kill him, at least I could help throw his smug arse in jail.”

“Sounds good,” Basira said, writing again.

“Is anyone gonna ask the obvious question?” Tim asked.

Jon glanced at him, head tilted inquisitively “Which qu- I would like to know what question you mean.”

“Why the hell is she writing all this down.”

Basira looked up. “Helps me remember if I write it down. I’ll burn it after we’re done here.”

“She does that,” Daisy said, waving her hand vaguely.

“Right then,” Jon said. “Does anyone want to come with me to Hainault this weekend?”

“I do,” Martin said, the buzzing in his head not letting him hesitate.

“Sure,” Melanie shrugged.

“Absolutely not,” spat Tim. He paused, then glared at Jon.

Jon cleared his throat. “S-sorry.”

“Get it under control, Jon,” Tim growled.

“Maybe we should, um, end the meeting?” Martin suggested, not liking the face Tim was making at all. “We don’t really have much else, unless Jon learned something else in America?”

Jon sighed, nodding. “Not as much as I would’ve like, no. Just more about...th-the Entities. Gerry did say that we need to stop the Unknowing when it starts, though—that’s when they’re most vulnerable.”

“Who’s Gerry?” Basira asked.

“Oh! Erm, Gerard Keay.”

Martin glanced at him. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Y-yes…” Jon stammered. “He’s um...he was bound to a Leitner. He couldn’t move on.”

“So you talked to a ghost?” Melanie asked. Jon nodded. “That would’ve been good on the show,” she mused.

“Almost three weeks abroad, and that’s _all_ you learned?” scoffed Tim. 

“I’m only human, Tim.”

Everyone looked up at Jon, knowing full well that that wasn’t exactly true anymore.

“Erm...well- well I’m close enough to it, I guess. I can’t- I’m not exactly…”

“I think we all know what you meant, Jon,” Martin cut in, ending the discussion before it’d even begun. “I think we’re done here, yeah?”

One by one, they all seemed to agree. “Right then,” Jon said, “I suppose we’ll meet back sometime later to see what all we have. If anyone finds anything out, please inform the rest of us.”

* * *

Time kept passing, and still Jon didn’t come talk to him. They saw each other often enough, but it was...he was distant. Almost as if he was afraid of Martin, even if he said he wasn’t. He _should_ be, of course—given what Martin was—but it hurt.

At least Jon returned his glasses. That was nice of him.

A few times, he thought about catching Jon on his own to talk, but that...it felt wrong. He didn’t want to corner Jon and force him to talk about this stuff (not that he exactly wanted to be cornered, either, but he was the one being scrutinised). Still, it appeared that Jon hadn’t told anyone about him yet, so at least there was that. He sort of understood the appeal of the Stranger in a weird sort of way; anonymity was nice.

It didn’t make the waiting any easier, though.

But now...now it was too late, wasn’t it? Jon and the others would be leaving soon for Yarmouth. Maybe to die, maybe to successfully prevent the apocalypse. Did it even really matter? Maybe it didn’t.

It just hurt.

* * *

_Knock knock._

Martin rubbed his tired eyes. Who the hell would be knocking on his door at—he squinted at the clock on his wall—half ten? He needed to sleep now, or he wouldn’t be awake enough to see them all off tomorrow night. Not that he didn’t have enough nervous energy to last him another decade, of course. He just was so _tired_ these days. Maybe it was depression taking another crack at him? Crippling loneliness?

_Knock knock._

He groaned and dragged himself to his feet. For a brief moment, he considered grabbing his pistol on the off-chance that one of the Stranger creatures was at his door, but he could take anything that tried to kill him, anyway. There was no point.

Before whoever was there could knock again, Martin pried away his many locks and opened up the door. “Hello?” he muttered before getting a good look at who was on the other side.

Jon shifted from side to side and avoided Martin’s surprised gaze. “I...I know it’s late, I just...could I...could we talk?”

Martin fumbled for anything resembling a coherent sentence. “Y-yeah- I mean- well- yeah just...come inside?” He stepped aside and let Jon in, closing the door behind him. He didn’t bother with the locks, just in case it made Jon uncomfortable. Or if Martin managed to scare him off completely this time.

Jon flopped onto the sofa, looking like he hadn’t slept in at least a month. “I’m sorry, Martin,” he sighed, “I just...I want to talk to you about...well, all of it, really, before…”

“Before you leave,” Martin supplied, positioning himself on the opposite side of the couch.

“Y-yes.”

Martin nodded, dread creeping into his chest. This was it—this was where Jon told him he was a freak that shouldn’t exist, and that he never wanted to see him again.

“I...could I...I want to know if I can ask you some things, first.”

“Ask me whatever you like,” he murmured, wishing he could be anywhere else while also begging to stay near Jon. “I’ve got nothing to hide anymore.”

“Right, right…” He seemed to ponder for a moment. “You...so you used to work at the Institute before you were, um...before the…?”

“Before I was Mechanised?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.”

“But you said...you said you’d been alive hundreds of years…”

Martin sighed. “It’s...well, the Mechanisms are pretty all right at time travel. I just had Brian bring me back to a couple days after I’d initially left. To everyone else, it seemed like I’d just been gone for a week.”

“And when was that?”

“Right before we went down to the Archives. The day I got back was the day I was transferred.” So far so good.

“So in-between that week, you were...where, exactly?”

Martin shrugged. “Kinda depends? We went all sorts of places.”

“But you weren’t on- on Earth?”

“No. Time travel, space travel, dimensional travel—we do all that stuff.”

“Right…” He scratched at his chin, which had a hint of stubble catching on it. “So...you said you’d needed a break. What um...what happened? What made you want to come back here?”

Martin hissed, the blow of the question a bit too strong. The buzz was more static this time. “We were in a system called Yggdrasil. I was out on a satellite in the middle of nowhere when it was destroyed. An eldritch god came through the crack between realities and consumed everything. I got...I got caught up in it. There was...so much…,” he said, voice cracking. “Jonny and Tim pulled me out, and Marius and Lyf helped put me back the right way, but...when you’re caught up in something that _embodies_ infinity, it makes you want to go back to...simpler things. I wanted to see my mum again. I wanted to pretend I was a normal person again, just for a bit.”

“I...I don’t think I follow.”

Of course not; how could _any_ of it make sense? “D’you remember back when...when you were still on the run from Daisy?”

Jon coughed. “O-of course.”

“When I was taking you here for the first time, you asked to listen to some stuff by the band. I wouldn’t let you listen to _The Bifrost Incident_ . That’s...that’s because I was _there_ , and it was horrible. Hell, they used my _distress call_ in the end of it!”

“Oh.”

“I’d lend you the album but...I’d rather not think too much about apocalypses with one so close, and I don’t think you need to add that to the list of things for you to worry about.”

“No,” Jon snickered, “no, I probably don’t.”

What he wouldn’t give to hear that little laugh forever. “That can’t be all you wanted to know about, though.”

“Nn- well...that was the _main_ thing, I think.”

“And the rest?”

Jon sighed. “Right.” His bright green gaze peered at Martin, staring into his very essence. “Do you intend harm on anyone here?” he asked, words fizzing with power that no human should have.

“Of course not!” Martin cried indignantly. “Okay, _I guess_ Elias, but does he really count? Besides, I can’t do much with him unless I want to risk y- the rest of you.”

Jon nodded. “Good.”

Martin gasped, trying to recover from the words being ripped out of him. “That was...actually that one hurt a bit, if I’m being honest.”

“Shit,” Jon hissed. “I-I’m sorry; I didn’t know it would hurt. I didn’t think I _could_ hurt you!”

Martin waved his hand. “It’s fine, it’s fine. It didn’t, like, actually _physically_ hurt, it was more of...I couldn’t...I couldn’t think about it? Or take a breath on my own accord? Sort of like...I couldn’t _not_ tell you. But it’s _fine_ ; I told you to ask me things.”

“Still. I _am_ sorry.”

“Well...thank you.”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither seeming willing to ask the question that Martin knew had to be on _both_ their minds.

Then Jon burst into laughter.

It was intoxicating, Jon’s laugh. Like a bubble inside him had burst, and it was everything he could do to _not_ laugh. And then it came out in loud barks of hysteria. Martin joined in, unable to help himself. Together they laughed at the insanity of the world they had been forced into, and not even the apocalypse could stop them.

Eventually, however, the humour died out, and they were left there, still giggling like schoolchildren whenever they met each other’s eyes. Martin had never wanted to kiss Jon more than there on his sofa, breathless from laughter.

He found himself scooting closer to Jon, until there was little space between them, and Martin wrapped his arms around this precious, lovable man and held him. Was that all right? He didn’t know, but Jon relaxed in his grip, and that was all the approval he needed.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon murmured, nuzzling Martin’s chest not unlike a cat. “I never meant to...to make you think that I...that I was upset. I just needed time.”

“I’ve got plenty of time to wait,” Martin whispered. “Perks of immortality.”

“Mm.”

This was his chance, wasn’t it? To admit how he really felt? “Jon?”

Jon shuffled a bit so he could look up at Martin. “Yes?”

“Is...is this okay?” he asked.

“Yes, Martin,” Jon purred. “Yes it is.”

His heart was pounding, and Jon _had_ to feel it with the way his cheek was pressed against Martin’s chest. “You’re not a-afraid of me? O-or—”

“Would you ever hurt me?”

Jon’s eyes practically glowed with the question. And the static popped and burst in his ears. “No. Not intentionally. I couldn’t.”

A sly grin crept its way onto Jon’s lips. “Then I have nothing to fear.”

Martin was almost certain that he would be having a heart attack right then if he were capable of it. He stared down at the man in his arms and felt completely overwhelmed with love. Could...could he really have this? Against his better judgement, he found himself leaning closer to Jon’s face.

Jon stared up at him, any remaining smugness melting away. “M-Martin...are you...are you going to kiss me?”

Martin chuckled, savouring the feeling of the question this time. “Would you like me to?”

They were so close, now, their noses almost touching. Jon was still locked in Martin’s embrace, though he could always wiggle out of it if he so desired. _Please say yes._

“I-I...I think I would like that,” Jon stammered, already pushing himself up to close the gap.

And the feelings that had started out as such a small spark exploded into a supernova.

He loosened his grip on Jon, moving his hands up to caress the man’s cheeks--to pull him even _closer_ . It’d been so long since he’d kissed anyone, but he knew—he _knew—_ that this was where his lips were made to be. Here, against Jon’s, poking and prodding and probing until all he could feel was Jon.

_I love him._

Jon ran his long, thin fingers across Martin’s cheek and through his tangled hair, leaving Martin shivering. His lips parted, inviting. Jon’s grasp around Martin’s neck tightened at the sensation of tongue on lip, tongue on tongue, but he leaned inward, a soft moan slipping away.

This was where he wanted to be. This is where he _needed_ to be.

They broke apart after what felt like forever. Breathless, they just stared at each other with what Martin felt was newfound awe.

“Wow,” Jon whispered.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.

Jon’s glasses were slightly skewed against his flushed face. Martin very slowly reached up, his hand still cupping Jon’s cheek while he readjusted the glasses to sit properly. He leaned back in, desperate for more of the sensation that only Jon could give him. “I love you,” Martin murmured between long, languid kisses that left them both gasping. Because he was _allowed_ to. Because, at least for a brief, unimaginably finite moment, the universe let him have this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of times I've read over this one chapter just to feel things is...a bit sad, but damn did I love writing it.  
> (also, Stardew Valley update go brrrr)
> 
> Follow me over on Tumblr at [@therealandian](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) or [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com)!


	20. Hellfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Just letting you know that I'm gonna take a bit of a hiatus after this chapter--just a couple of weeks to build up a bit more of a buffer (I only have one more chapter finished! D: ). I've also been working on a bit more of my original stuff, so head over to [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com) and check out what I'm gonna be posting about my original fantasy series starring an angsty boi and magic and shit! :D
> 
> CW: Panic, abuse, Elias being incredibly slimy

Martin pensively watched the paper curl as the flames licked at its fibres before he dropped it into the bin with the others. “There’s plenty more on the pile,” he cooed to the whirring tape recorder beside him. Could Elias hear him? Could he see his precious papers going up in smoke and ash?

The sharp knock on the door brought a wide grin to his face. “Martin,” Elias snapped. “Martin, open the door.” The knob twisted, but the lock held firm.

This was the most fun he’d had in a long time. May as well play with it a bit. “Sorry, Elias. I can’t hear you,” he said, “There’s a _door_ in the way.”

“Martin, I do not have time for this.”

Martin smiled gleefully, more than aware that Elias could see him through that pathetic wooden barrier. “Then maybe you should _make_ time.”

“Unlock the door,” Elias ordered. “ _Now_.”

“I thought you had a key,” Martin hummed, picking up another sheet.

“ _Martin_!”

Laughter bubbled up in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Elias banged on the door again, but then his footsteps beat a hasty retreat. Martin chuckled. “I would hurry, though, if I were you.”

 _Hopefully Melanie’s in position by now,_ he thought, flicking the lighter back on. Even if she wasn’t, he was honestly just having a bit of fun. _Ashes would be proud._

It hardly took Elias more than a few minutes to get back, but it still gave Martin more than enough time to burn through a few more. Especially now that he wasn’t really reading them out for the recorder since he already had Elias’s attention.

“Hello,” Martin chirped as the door swung inwards, revealing Elias in all his anger.

“What are you doing?”

Martin ignored him, swinging the paper before dropping it into the bin. “That one? That one was Benjamin Hatendi. You weren’t fast enough with the key!”

Elias glared at him with such fury, it might have even rivalled Jonny’s. “What. Are. You. Doing.”

Martin giggled, dragging yet another paper from the pile. “Oh, I’m sorry, can you not just look into my head? Read my mind?” He tossed it into the bin fire without giving it a second though. “What’s wrong? Too busy trying to keep an eye on everything?”

“Tell me what you’re doing, and why.” If looks could kill...

He shrugged. “I just thought I’d, you know, drop a couple of ideas in the old suggestion box.” He picked up one more statement, clicking the lighter on again. “Turns out my suggestion is…fire.” The paper went up in smoke.

Elias let out a deep, heavy sigh, physically biting his tongue. He practically _oozed_ rage. "And yet you haven’t set the whole Archives alight," he said, glancing around. "So I assume this is…what’s it called? a cry for attention."

Martin snorted and shrugged. "Maybe I just thought it might hurt."

"No more than you’re hurting yourself by acting out."

Oh," Martin exclaimed, feigning surprise. "So that’s it, isn’t it? Martin’s just ‘acting out’! I mean, Daisy’s a rabid dog, and Melanie’s a potential killer, Tim’s a-a rogue element, but Martin? oh Martin’s just acting out! He’ll have a cry, and a lie down, and feel much better!" It was almost laughable, how little Elias truly seemed to know despite his apparent omniscience.

"And if you’re trying to convince me otherwise, then you are failing," Elias said, snatching the lighter away before Martin could burn up some more papers. "Now, if you’re quite done, I am very busy."

Things really were going perfectly for once. What a pleasant surprise. "Oh, sorry!" Martin chirped, reaching for the files and pulling a backup lighter from his pocket. "Sorry, I’m not keeping you from the show, am I? Well- well you head back. I’ll keep myself busy here. Albrecht von Closen is next, I think." He glanced at the date. "Hm! He’s quite an old one. Should go up very quickly."

Elias grabbed that lighter, too. The cheap plastic shattered in his hand. "Did Jon put you up to this?"

"You think I’m doing this for him?" No matter that, in a way, he was.

"No," Elias sneered, looking him up and down. "It’s just the sort of half-baked scheme he’d come up with, and I am well aware that you’d do just about anything for him."

“I actually—!”

“—And I _don’t_ need to read your mind for that one.”

Martin steeled himself. So what if Elias knew about his feelings? It wasn’t like they were a secret, especially not anymore. Not after he...he’d shared Jon’s bed and kissed him the way he’d dreamed of for years. Not after he’d woken up with that beautiful, scarred man cradled in his arms, kissed his forehead, made him his favorite tea, and then sent him off into something that was likely to get him killed. They hadn’t even gotten to have breakfast before Daisy’s car pulled up outside.

Yes, he would do almost anything for Jon. But that...didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that Elias couldn’t see the bigger picture. Didn’t know his actual motives.

“Do you really,” he started with a pause, “—Is it so hard to believe that I hate you as well?”

Elias smirked. “No. It’s just hard to imagine that you would act on it.”

He didn’t know—he _couldn’t_ know if he was thinking _that_! “You think I’m, what, that I’m- I’m _bluffing_?”

“Oh, no. You’ve made that quite clear. And I’m certainly not _unaware_ of your...eccentricities.”

Well...maybe he _did_ know. “Then you’re aware that I could kill you right here without hardly trying,” Martin hissed. If only he had his pistol on him at the moment.

“Like I said,” Elias smiled, “I find it hard to believe you would act on it. You can’t kill me without killing everyone else you care about.”

Fiery rage burned in his veins. “So what? I don’t get to be angry? I don’t get to burn things?” Martin spat, jumping up from his seat. “Just- just run around, making tea, while everyone else gets to actually have feelings?”

Elias’s glare narrowed. “Please get to the point, Martin.”

“Maybe there isn’t one!” Martin shouted. “Alright? Maybe—”

“Maybe you’re just wasting my time.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

“I see,” Elias said, finally dropping his wretched gaze from Martin’s face for the first time since entering the room. It was nice to be able to breathe properly again without that infinite _Stare_. “That puts me in a…difficult position.”

Hearing that might well have been his greatest catharsis in decades. “Good!”

“You might want to turn the tape off, Martin.”

Martin cocked a smile and hit the button on the recorder. For a brief second, there was silence. Then it clicked back on.

“Hm,” Martin said, smiling inwardly. “Sorry. Looks like it wants to know what’s going on.”

“Hm,” Elias agreed, glaring at it. “A pity. You know Jon listens to all of them.”

“What, you don’t want him hearing your big evil speech?”

Elias’s stare drew back to him, followed by a very smug grin. “Just wanted to spare you the small amount of dignity you have left.”

“ _Dignity_!?” Martin cried. As if he had any left. “Right, yeah! Like the dignity of being trapped in your flat by worms? Or sleeping in the Archives clutching a _corkscrew_? O-or fetching drinks for the thing that murdered your friend without you even noticing? Laughing, at all their little jokes, then being led to wander impossible corridors for weeks—”

“Are you done?” Elias sighed.

“Not even _close_ ! Because, I—” he paused, trying to think of the words, trying to recall everything from the last two years that had left him miserable and at the mercy of things beyond even his own understanding “—I’ve been thinking. It’s not like you got this all-seeing thing recently. You’ve had it the _whole time_. I remember the way you looked at Sasha after the attack. You knew it wasn’t her. And I reckon you _knew_ Prentiss was lurking under the Institute, too, and you did _nothing_. Why?”

Elias just stared at him. He could just _punch_ the bastard; it’d be so easy...

Instead, he hit his fist on the desk. “ _Why_!?”

Elias sighed and rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

“What, like with Melanie?” Martin scoffed. “Just that perfect bit of information to leave me a wreck?”

There was a pause. Then a quiet “Yes.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got something better than that pathetic dig at my feelings for Jon.”

“It’s baffling, really,” the man smirked, drawing closer without a care in the world. “Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly.”

Just because Jon hadn’t been the nicest to him over the past couple of years didn’t mean anything. He’d grown, same as anyone else. He was so wonderful under his pretentious shield. “You don’t know him,” Martin said.

Elias ignored him. “You know, I really should have gone for that. Found something that would finally manage to shatter that precious image you have of him. But, as you say I am very busy at the moment. So I suppose I’ll have to go with what I had prepared.”

“ _Do it_.” _I dare you._

“Your mother,” Elias began, eyes lighting up with eldritch power. “She’s always been…difficult, hasn’t she? You take care of her for years, feed her, clean up after her, and now, with her condition degrading even further, she is the one that asked to be moved into a home. To have it left to the nurses. She’s the one that refuses your visits.”

Images flashed into his mind. Himself, caring for his mother. His mother, pushing him away at every chance. He sucked in a breath. “She’s a-always been...”

“Strong-willed?” Elias suggested.

“Stubborn…”

“No. No, Martin. You know the reason.”

He _did_ , didn’t he? He saw the way she looked at him. That cold, hard glare seething with disgust. That snappish personality that only seemed to come out when he was around.

**_Your mother simply hates you. You just don’t know why._ **

The images were consuming him, now. Feelings that weren’t his own. He saw himself moving around, helping and falsely cheerful as always, and he _felt_ it—his mother’s loathing of him. Why did she hate him? What did he do? He must’ve done _something_. Surely she couldn’t just hate him because he was himself. Right?

**_It’s not your fault, though I know that isn’t any consolation. Just bad luck, really. How old were you when your father left? Eight? Nine?_ **

His father? Yes, there was a time when he’d had a father. So very, very long ago. He was just a child when his father had left.

**_When your mother began to sicken, and he decided he was done with you both. Not old enough to remember him with any great clarity, especially when your mother refused to keep any pictures of him. She never recovered from that betrayal. He just tore her heart right out and took it with him._ **

He remembered the yelling. The diagnosis had just come through. There was lots of shouting, and he had hidden in his bedroom. He remembered crying. There was lots of crying after that day. And then some more when the papers came in. When it was official.

**_The thing is, though, Martin. If you ever do want to know exactly what your father looked like…All you have to do is look in a mirror._ **

Oh God. He could See it now. Himself, with his freckled cheeks and orange-coloured hair. His father, much the same. A few shades lighter, but still quite similar. His mother, a bit tanner, a bit less freckly.

And he could feel it. All the seething hatred when she looked at him. It was like a tidal wave of molten rock boiling him down until all that was left was a bitter taste in his mouth full of regret. He was vaguely aware of his body slumping down into the chair and Elias’s hand over his eyes as he transferred the Knowledge and Feelings directly into his mind. Static filled his head.

**_The resemblance is quite uncanny. The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her. Feeding her. Cleaning her. Looking down on her with such pity._ **

There were tears now, dribbling down his face. He’d never wanted to believe that she hated him. He never wanted to believe it was because of his father. How could she hate someone so much? How could she hate her own child? “ _Shut. Up,_ ” he hissed. If he could just make it _stop_ , maybe he could keep lying to himself.

**_You want to know what she sees when she looks at you?_ **

The static grew, consuming his every last shred of self as it transferred a memory that was not his own into his head.

He saw himself piddling around, busying himself with tea and singing an all-too-familiar tune. But he wasn’t himself anymore. He was lost in the memory of his own mother.

“The hell are you gibbering?” she snapped. _Just like that bastard,_ she thought bitterly. _Always singing and humming and whistling. Who does he think he is, anyway? Always barging in here and acting like he owns the place. This is_ my _home._

“S-sorry,” Martin stuttered. Even his _voice_ was grating. Too similar. He was _just like_ his father. “Just, em...found a band I like awhile back. Didn’t mean to start singing.”

“Well it sounds like garbage,” she sneered. His face fell, and she couldn’t help but be pleased by that. Anyone who looks like _him_ didn’t deserve to be happy. “So go home and sing your shit songs away from me.”

He fussed around for a bit longer, but finally, _finally_ , he left. God, the _peace_. No ugly reminders of the past. She could die in peace here, cared for by people who had nothing to do with that disgusting man.

Martin clawed his consciousness out of his mother’s memory. He was sobbing. He was in pain. Was it only his damaged mind, or was it physical? It shouldn’t _be_ physical, but...it sure _felt_ like it. Blood trickled out of his nose. “Oh God…,” he gasped. He didn’t want this. He wanted it to go away. He didn’t want to feel his mother’s hate burning within his own self.

Elias leaned next to his ear, removing his hand from Martin’s forehead, removing his influence from his mind. “Don’t burn any more statements,” he hissed.

He left. Martin didn’t care. All he could feel was the hatred. The pain. The bitterness. No wonder she treated him that way. No wonder.

And he cried.

* * *

Melanie had come through. She wasn’t broken by what Elias showed her; she channelled her energy into stopping the man. She was the real hero, right?

Not Martin Blackwood the Mechanism, hated by everyone.

He gripped his steering wheel. Basira had called. She was in hospital. And Jon…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me over on Tumblr at [@therealandian](https://therealandian.tumblr.com) or [@mslynnwrites](https://mslynnwrites.tumblr.com)


	21. Sleeping Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack~~  
> Didja miss me?
> 
> My break was a bit longer than I was intending, but the semester's been kicking my ass so that's probably a good thing? Anyway, I'm a bit behind in current episodes, but I'm still writing this lovely story any chance I get. So please! Enjoy Martin being a sad boi pining after comatose Jon.
> 
> CW: depression, the Lonely, Peter Lukas, dealing with death, Martin's terrible mother

Jon was dead. Sort of. Almost. Did it matter the technicalities?

No.

No, Jon was dead.

Jon was dead, and it was all Martin’ fault.

Martin punched a wall, his bones cracking under the force. He didn’t care. Why did he let Jon go? Why didn’t he take care of the Circus himself?

_Why?_

* * *

He’d loved him. He’d really, _honestly_ loved him. All he’d gotten was a moment. Why couldn’t he have acted sooner? He’d finally, _finally_ had him.

And now he was gone.

Jon was dead.

Martin was pretty sure his heart died with him.

* * *

His body was lying on a hard, lumpy mattress not unlike Martin’s own. There was a thin white sheet covering most of him. The respirator breathed for him. The electric pulse beat his heart for him. They said his mind was alive and active. But his skin was so pale and ashen. Nothing like Jon.

He looked so peaceful. His face didn’t crease with worry. He didn’t toss around with nightmares. Martin could only hope that he _was_ at peace.

He knew he wasn’t.

* * *

Tim was dead. Daisy was probably dead. Basira didn’t want to talk about it. Melanie was angry all the time. Peter Lukas had taken over as head of the Institute.

* * *

He missed Jon. He missed having friends. What was the point of him without someone else to care for?

* * *

He spoke with his mother. He told her he understood. Told her he would leave her alone if she preferred. Never visit her again.

She spat in his face and told him to piss off.

* * *

He wanted to leave. He wanted his crew back. They were more attainable than Jon. But he couldn’t leave the Institute. He couldn’t _escape_.

Maybe it was Peter Lukas’s influence making him feel more alone. Maybe it was just him. 

It wasn’t like anyone wanted him anyway. Not anymore.

* * *

His mum was dead. He wasn’t even invited to the funeral.

At least she got her final wish of never seeing him again.

* * *

Things were starting to grow foggy.

* * *

“Hi, Jon.” Martin whispered. The tape recorder whirred in his hands. Could Jon hear him? Probably not. Still. It was all he had.

Jon’s hair spilled out underneath his head. It hadn’t grown in all these months. It was frail and dead as he was. His skin was so pale—not the soft brown it once was. He was looking at a dead man, after all.

“How are you?” he asked.

He tried to imagine what Jon’s response would be. ‘Oh I’m just fine, Martin. Just felt like being dead. How are you doing this lovely day?’ Oh, the absurdity.

“Yeah,” he murmured, gently brushing a few strands of hair from Jon’s blank face. “Yeah, same here. It’s- it’s bad all over, y’know?” _Please wake up. Please come back to me._ “I’m...getting by, I suppose. Um…Basira’s keeping things, taking over, and Melanie is, well—” a pathetic chuckle slipped out “—Melanie is Melanie.” He wondered if anyone even knew what that meant anymore.

“Anyway, yeah, just...thought I’d stop by. Check in and uh, y’know. See how you’re, um—”

_I just want you to come back. You’re the only person who cares about me here. You’re the only one who’s ever loved me._

He took a choking, gasping breath. “We really need you, Jon. Everything’s— It’s bad. I-I don’t know how much longer we can do this.”

The screams coming from outside his new office, filling his ears with the sounds of terror. He couldn’t get it out of his head. There’d been so much blood. Flaking skin and shredded bones littered the floor while blood dripped from the ceiling. Terror radiated from every corner of the building, and still they couldn’t stop that monster. They’d only survived because of Melanie and _Helen_ , of all people(?).

Peter had had him send out a mass email later saying that everything was under control. Six people had quit on the spot.

“We—” Martin whispered, but...it didn’t sound right. “I need you. And I-I know that you’re not- I know there’s no way t—”

He wanted to cry. He felt like that was all he did anymore. “We need you, Jon. Jon, please, just- Please.” Pathetic. He was so pathetic. An immortal like him should be able to cope with loss. But looking down at the man lying motionless in front of him…

He choked back a sob. “If-If there’s anything left in you that can still see us, o-or some power that you’ve still got, o-o-or, something! Anything, please!”

Tears rained onto Jon’s ashen hand, and Martin took it in his own. “Please,” he gasped. “I-I can’t—”

_I can’t do this without you. I can’t keep going without you._

His crew had lost people they cared about countless times. Why couldn’t he be like them? Why couldn’t he let go and move on?

“I—” he began. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Whatever he’d been about to say died on his tongue. No one needed to hear him begging. No one needed him.

Except for, it would seem, Peter Lukas.

“Have you considered my proposal?” asked Peter’s disgustingly cheerful voice. “The sooner we begin with this, the better. I can’t emphasize enough just how important this is.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” Martin replied, forcing his gaze away from Jon’s lifeless body.

“I know that keeping the Archivist safe is important to you, but if we’re going to go through with this, you need to let go of him.”

Always ‘the Archivist’ this and ‘the Archivist’ that with him. As if Jon didn’t have a _name_. As if he weren’t his own _person_ dragged into this hell. But...he _had_ made his choice for the most part. “I’m- I’m actually with him now,” he sniffed. “You were right.”

_He won’t wake up. Not even for me. He’s gone. He’s gone, and I am alone._

_God, I’m so alone._

“You’re the best candidate for it, Martin. This is of the utmost importance.”

He didn’t have to sound so chipper about it.

Martin took a shaking, cautious breath. “I- Will they be safe?”

“I can’t promise anything, of course, but they’d be much more protected either way.”

“Okay,” he whispered. He took one more long, pleading look at Jon. No movement. Martin was alone in a room with a dead man. He had to protect the people who were left. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” Peter exclaimed. “I want you back here as soon as possible, and we’ll go over what we need to do.”

“Yeah,” Martin replied, feeling more distant from himself than he ever had before. “Sure thing.”

He really hoped he wasn’t making a mistake. Damn his bleeding heart. He forced himself to walk to the door, leaving the tape recorder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, resting his head against the wall and forcing himself not to take one last look. “Goodbye, Jon.”

He waited just a moment, on the slightest off-chance that Jon would suddenly wake. But that didn’t happen, so he left him behind.

The fog followed him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and get back into the whole "post every other Wednesday", but I make no promises. Hope you enjoyed!


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